


Apoptosis

by Aleph_Naught



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: 'Slice of Priwen', Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Blood and Injury, Character Development, Gen, Gore, Story Arc, Vampire Hunters, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-06-27 19:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleph_Naught/pseuds/Aleph_Naught
Summary: London 1918. The year it all began. When the very ideals and virtues he upheld are forced back, laced in poison and drenched in blood, what choice has he, but to fight?For what?Freedom? Order?AndLife?But what would he know anyway?AU where Jonathan doesn't kill Mary, and learns to live with his condition under the "guidance" of Priwen. The choices of consequence are not black nor white, but an illusory gray. Lore is sometimes reworked to fit the story.Edited chapters: 1-6





	1. Cavalier

**Author's Note:**

> [Revamp Progress] *Dates are my schedule for editing but are not confirmed for completion.*  
> Chapter 1: Done | Chapter 2: Done | Chapter 3: Done | Chapter 4: Done | Chapter 5: Done | Chapter 6: Done | Chapter 7: Postponed | Chapter 8: Postponed | Chapter 9: Postponed
> 
> Hello! This is my first published chapter for a fandom on AO3, though I'd been a long time lurker from around 2014 (I just made this account today). I plan on changing the story _drastically_ (pretty much all that'll stay are the characters, the reason for the epidemic, and the intro scene). You've probably finished 'Vampyr', so good for you (the last two chapters were paced pretty badly though imo). If you didn't, some of this might not make sense—but I'll try to build everything needed from the original story from the ground up, while also adding information that would drive _my_ story to a climax. If you have any comments or questions, feel free! It's open!
> 
> The pace picks up a bit later (Chap 1 is a bit slow since it's just setting things up).
> 
> [EDIT]  
> I'll update in 3~ chapter arcs that update with short gaps in between chapters, but have a long~ delay between arcs (a week maybe)
> 
> Further notes: I don't think there will be much (if any) romance. The story will focus mainly on Jonathan's acclimation to his new life, and his duties as "London's Champion". I rated it M for now. I'll see how much I can temper the violence and possibly change it to T later on.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy.

Soft rasps played in the air around Jonathan, their sounds, he could only assume were the breaths escaping his chapped and dirtied lips. Stark blackness encompassed the sky, constellations muddled from the noise and lights of London.

 _London? That was right!_ But where was he, and what day was it? _He’d only just arrived yet had no idea how he ended up_ —

The smell of decay lingered in the draft, and what remained of quiet midnight London was solely interrupted by the pitter-patter of a coming storm. Though the wind felt icy and left the hair on his bare forearms upright, it didn’t bother him.

Jonathan strained and twisted his body in an attempt to move, noticing the subtle weight pressed on his limbs and torso. _What are these?_

His body constricted suddenly, driven by a pang of emptiness, a need for the warmth, the robust taste of… _what_? It clouded his mind, overpowering his other senses. He was out on the streets to stalk whatever it was to quench his thirst, all a blur when he moved or stopped.

Erratic thumping pounded at his ears with enough force he thought they’d bleed, yet it drew him in. A single street light burned into view, revealing a figure pacing with anxiousness. One long stride after the other brought him within arm's reach, details of their appearance lost in the stupor.

_Jonathan!_

He heard his name once, possibly twice, the voice too dull and too distant to comprehend.

 _You're alive. Blood._ He drew his head back.

 _So worried. Eat._ Jonathan swore to have heard another voice calling, but he couldn’t pick them apart anymore. Snarls, hisses, and pain joined the fangs erupting from his mouth. He snapped his head down to the figure’s neck—but didn't connect.

Excruciating pain bore into his shoulder, preceded by a crackle and ‘clink’ of metal on metal. Jonathan recoiled and fell to a knee on the ground. Rain pricked his body like needles, as he settled from the shift in perception. Through the clamor of shouts, a smooth set of hands landed on his wounded shoulder, then to his cheeks, and then finally wrapped around him.

It didn’t _warm_ him at all, nor did it appease the pulsation that tore his insides. Brilliant red overlaid his blue dress shirt, viscous liquid seeping through and turning watery as it mixed into the damp tiled floor. He shivered wildly as the pain body collided with that of his hunger.

"Jonathan! Jonny! You're bleeding, you’re—we need to take you to a hospital quickly! You’ll be alright." The gentle voice turned shaky and harsh in an instant. "You! How could you shoot my brother as if he were an _animal_?"

 _Brother? Mary…_ He pried himself from her arms, stumbling away into a guarded stance.

She clasped her hands together and drew near, but when he flinched back and scraped his arms on a rough tile, she stopped.

 _No. No… This wasn’t happening!_ His mind raced with possibilities. They all led to the same thing—he nearly murdered his sister.

“Jon—”

"Lady!” A man shouted, speeding to the woman’s side. “Back away from the leech!" He clicked the hammer back. "I will not tell you again. We need to rid this vermin before it recovers." Over her shoulder, a group of men came in leather and dark fabrics.

She stood her ground, glaring despondently. "You'll do no such thing to him!” The man closest to her jerked his head back, shocked from her violent reaction. “Please! My brother is not a leech—he isn't vermin—he's just a doctor coming home from _war_!"

Thunder crackled above as parts of his memory returned. _World War One._

 _His service tent, dirty trenches, earsplitting noise. Cries. Bodies. Blood._ The sparks of pain doubled as Jonathan instinctively flexed his arm. He grimaced.

"Mary?" His head lolled, still processing all the information. "Mary, is it really you?"

The rain strengthened if only marginally, but the streets would soon flood from the looks of it. The offenders watched the two with tense movements. Hands wiped away errant droplets that smeared on their faces, muggy air only worsening.

_He was just shot by a gang and would’ve have killed Mary had he not been stopped. There was a bloody hole in his shoulder—why in hell was he more curious in the reason for all this, than a way to a hospital?_

Mary spoke, not moving from her spot, "I'm here, Jonathan. We'll get you mended up—and they’ll deal with their actions afterwards." She wore a hard look as the men demanded her to leave.

"I need to know..." Jonathan stood to face the man beside Mary. "Where is this place? What happened to me? Why… why did you _shoot_ me?" He clutched his shoulder. Breathing was a difficulty no matter how much he drank in.

It was a struggle to balance with the lightheadedness. The wind could topple him if it tried.

He bit down on his tongue, anything to keep him vigil and distract from the discomfort of the bleeding—

— _Had the wound already closed?_ The branches of trickling blood on his skin were merely caused by his bloody sleeve.

“What?” The man cocked his head, mildly surprised to hear honesty in the questions. He didn't loosen his grip on his firearm however.

Jonathan gave him a once-over. A badge and emblem were attached to his left breast pocket. Adorning his stocky frame were a set of weaponry—revolver in hand, sheathed blade and a stake tied to his belt.

"You're damn serious?" He scoffed, moving between the siblings. "You're a leech, a _vampire_. We saw you rise from there—"

He directed his finger towards the large depression behind them, and Jonathan followed it. Arms and legs protruded from the mass of bodies in the ditch, faces caked with mud. Being buried among dozens of corpses, disease-ridden most likely, would have been his second concern.

"—and if we hadn't arrived in time you’d have already killed her!" The man spat out, gesturing with his gun.

"He wouldn't have!" Mary shook her head. "What do you mean, vampire? How is that possible?"

 _The blood-sucking myths of the uneducated? This must be a dream_ , the longest one. _Would he ever wake up?_

The man stilled for a moment then turned. He moved to speak with his party, hand digging into his pocket and perusing a sheet of paper. They discussed for a moment, some turning to keep watch of the two, but otherwise left the siblings to their own.

"It can’t be true. You were scheduled to arrive two nights ago—yet we find you by a burial here, at the witching hour?" She spoke with a low tone, almost pleading for his refute.

_This hunger... what caused it? Supernatural events could always be explained through sensible means, but he was at a loss._

"They may be right," he apologized. "I was out of it, unaware of what I’ve been doing. I could’ve _killed_ you had they not stopped me.” Even then, he felt the pull from her body.  “The bleeding has already stopped..."

She gazed at him in caution and surprise, mouth ajar.

"Forgive me, please,” he continued, closing his eyes.

Arms draped across his frame, Mary leaning with her head against him. "Please?" she said almost humorously. "Jonathan, I'll try to believe you're something—unnatural—now, but I can't imagine you'd readily go against me. Come home..."

The rolling and swelling void in him persisted, but his mind was currently his. "Right. That's good to hear." Jonathan let himself smile for the first time since waking.

The man approached again with a clear of his throat, and Mary moved to give them space. "You are Dr. Jonathan Reid, correct?" He waited an instance, received a firm nod from the doctor, then continued. "Obituary reports from yesterday state your death shortly after your arrival back in London." He huffed as the smell of rot finally caught up to him.

_His death?_

_That couldn't be—_ he was standing there right now _. Dead men didn't walk. Dead men didn't see. And they most certainly wouldn’t know they were dead._

"Well, condolences for your loss, doctor," someone from the back hollered, followed by the meaty sound of a hit and then snickering.

"You're here now, however _alive_ you may be as a leech—special case considering circumstances." He seemed unfazed by his subordinate's unruly behavior. "But you’re still a threat to London as it is and it would be _appropriate_ to have you under surveillance."

"So you mean to say... you deem it necessary to keep me detained?"

"For an indefinite time," the man replied curtly.

Jonathan furrowed his brows, and Mary looked to her brother troubled. _What other choice had he? Those men were armed, and despite everything they weren’t completely in the wrong. If what they said was to be trusted, he could endanger the lives of those close to him should he refuse—if he even had that option._

"What complications would this bring up then?" Jonathan asked. "What becomes of my status as a doctor? As a citizen of London?"

"We are the Guard of Priwen, mercenaries, _vampire_ hunters if you will." He exhaled. "Not officially a branch of judiciary. If you wish your identity undisclosed then we'll keep it by all means. Records of this _may_ be made but are not for public viewing."

A low rumble resounded above, threatening for harsher weather. They were in an open area and the rain had started to bother them.

_This was madness!_

"I'd only just gotten away from bloodshed. I'll have no more here," Jonathan muttered plaintively. "I'll go with you, but do make certain that news doesn’t circulate."

"We can discuss the arrangements at a later time. Let's lead you to headquarters now." The man glanced apologetically to Mary. "Sorry ma'am. In all honesty we've _already_ been lenient here. We don't normally allow their kind a chance to speak."

Added to that was the doctor's reputation, and existence as a newborn— _which Priwen did take interest in_ —he might have added, but that needn't be mentioned.

“You best come back soon, Jonathan.” The siblings solemnly shared farewells, and then the group was off. One of the guards stayed behind to escort Mary return, though it didn’t comfort them the least.

⁂

The Guard of Priwen led Jonathan through the mud and fog of the docks, positioning him tight at the center and flanked on the sides, _as would a convict being marched for beheading._ While the rain poured for a moment on, leaving the men drenched from their lack of umbrellas, it did abate and eventually stop. The doctor was pleasantly surprised to find that his convoy wouldn't be any more dreary than it should have been at the very least.

While the Reid estate was situated at a further district, he recalled passing through these streets in his youth so it wasn't all unfamiliar. The street they were on held a market in the old days, but was since then cleared for more space. He kept note of the various twists and turns on the path to Whitechapel—where Priwen was stationed—a dissimilarity to West End's broad and extensive roads that he was more fond of.

A hand signal from the front was raised and the guards settled into a formation, indicating what Jonathan assumed was a threat.

"What does that mean?" he inquired.

"Just a small pack of Skals onto our right," someone grunted out. "We’ll deal with it."

Three shadows leapt from a narrow passage, one immediately shot several times through the chest and dropped dead. His eyes were sharp, able catch details even as they scrambled about. These were no humans, jaws hung far too low, just corpses with skin pulled tightly against their skeletons.

The other two loosed guttural screams, charged into the flank, and were immediately dispatched by a few more shots to cripple them, followed by swings of thick blades.

The Guard resumed their position and continued their trek onward.

"You call them _Skals_? Am I one of them?" Jonathan could feel the distinct heaviness of blood in the air, but decided to act against it. "Are they also attracted to blood?"

 _He’d be lain dead on the floor too, had his sister not interfered._ He thanked her silently, hoping she wouldn’t encounter trouble on her way back.

"We don't bother much with terms. To us it's simply a matter of exterminating their threat." He snorted, and Jonathan saw a flash of sharp and uneven teeth as his mouth shifted. "But yes, there are differences from _your_ type of beast, and _their_ type of beast. Blood-drinking? Not one of them. Can’t be arsed to explain."

 _So there do exist subspecies of vampires. Interesting enough._ Jonathan reached into a pocket and fished for his watch.

_Empty?_

He sighed and resigned from his efforts. It made enough sense. He was presumed to be dead—of course his belongings would have been looted. _Distributed_ maybe, but that didn’t fare any better with him.

⁂

Without a sense of time Jonathan wasn't sure exactly how long their travel was, but he wasn't much more fatigued than when he awoke. Two and a half hours passed perhaps, and the first rays of dawn peeked through the several-story buildings on the way.

Large beams of cobblestone and concrete lined the fences and gate, to which he was quickly ushered in. Shacks and towers along with a fair amount of buildings stood sprawling across the enclave. Red emblems, one that he recognized on the man who shot him, were abundantly plastered on walls and objects. Jonathan received several odd and occasionally malicious looks, but so far hadn’t been shot again. _An improvement at least_ , not as hostile as he originally thought.

The group split and those that remained led the doctor to a structure by the back, likely a cell. Jangling of keys accompanied the opening of a heavy steel-bar door. Jonathan entered, turning to see it closed shut and locked, a faint, pleasant scent accompanying his passage.

Someone chuckled from the other side. “Never seen a leech willingly enter Priwen territory, and likewise step into confinement.”

That drew some laughter from the others, though Jonathan could tell they were more iffy from him being there than amused.

He turned again, finding and flicking on a light switch, then taking in the sight of the cubbyhole before him. There were no other entrances and it was furnished barely, though had a high ceiling. A small desk and chair aligned the right wall. A single bulb lighted the center of the room, and immediately below it— _a dead body_?


	2. Vitreous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan is given some time to think, and interact with Priwen. He gave consent to being held captive, but down from the highs and lows of his previous stupor (and tension), he starts doubting that decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've decided on the schedule of chapter updates. It'll be easier for me to maintain and it might feel like less of a delay between updates for you readers. I'll write the story in narrative arcs. The first three chapters will be the first one, so you can probably expect two days for the third chapter (it's 2200 words so far, but that's the second scene out of four probably), and then around a week for the next story arc which will also have shorter delays in between. Anyway, enjoy.

Jonathan stood by the doorway hesitant to approach, even breathe. A woman was bent over, hand over a rock. "That's… that’s what's been causing the stench."

He admitted that it was _more_ than that, however. A tangy, bitter aroma idled on the edge of his senses— _he never thought he'd describe a body in that manner_ . Steeling himself and making his way across the room, he believed the body to be at least a day old, though not any longer than three at most. _Pale skin, bloodshot eyes._ A silk interlacing shawl adorned her petite frame. And her head was _caved in_ as if put under a hydraulic press, and then popped, staining the rest of her gruesomely.

Blood covered her body and filled the gaps in the unpolished floor, crusted many times over. All this, and instinctively he still wondered what she would _taste_ like. Jonathan frowned, chastising himself for finding the sight even mildly interesting. He paced the room, not wanting to bother himself any longer.

Noting the rhythmic beat from the other side of the doorway, Jonathan called out, "Hello?” Upon receiving no response, he moved back to the doors. They sounded almost like drums.

He grasped the metal bars and peered to the side of it fruitlessly. The walls were too thick, and the door too unmoving. Quiet snoring came from the left, a guard fallen asleep while watching over him perhaps.

_Were they the man’s pulse?_

Through the bars he could see that morning had arrived at last, casting shadows of high walls to the left. His room was not large— _could the light reach him at a later time_ ? _Would the sun even affect him?_

Beyond his cell was a squat but wide building beginning from the right wall and extending out of view to the left. Straining his ears, he could make out grumbling and shifting of clothes—barracks. It wasn’t very far, but Jonathan doubted why he could hear them regardless.

He retreated to the side of the room with the chair and sat to inspect the mahogany desk. Lines and dust-filled scratches disfigured the surface but it was otherwise clean. Brushing over it— _good enough_ —he rested his head on an arm. The pose was far from comfortable but he'd been tired and hungry for a good half-day—and shot in the shoulder at the dead of night. He fell to a light sleep though knew his neck wouldn’t thank him later.

⁂

"Oi. Leech." A voice tch'd from the door. "Get up." The voice grew impatient. "We don't have time for this."

The doctor jolted awake, a bullet streaking over his head and digging into the wall. One knee slammed into the desk and toppled it, pushing his back into the chair and nearly causing him to fall.

"What is it!?" Jonathan yelled, flustered. "What is it with you people and shooting guns?"

"Does the trick. You're up now aren't you?"

He straightened himself, face a scowl from being so rudely woken. His ears still rang from the shot’s blast and echo. "What do you want?" he repeated.

"Funny you should ask that. Matthias keeps buggering me to stop having every leech we meet killed on the spot," the Irish accent drawled. "I'd shoot you where you stand were it up to me."

"Who are you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Who is Matthias then? Are you here for—"

"God damn, you lot ask too many questions." He moved closer to the door, a tall brutish man, large bags under his eyes with which he glowered menacingly. "I'm here to _gauge_ how _dead_ you are."

"You jest," Jonathan said. "You're here to kill me in cold blood." He looked back to the upturned desk. "That could’ve ended me!"

The man stared at him emptily, then thrust an arm through the bars to point at the body. "Hmm, haven’t eaten yet?"

"Come off it."

"Not a joke leech," the man said testily. "The boys must've missed that one. Forgot to clean her up.”

Jonathan looked at him with wide eyes.

"That? Stalked around Priwen territory like a rat." He shrugged. "Found her, bled her, locked her up. Must've killed herself with that slab there." His face contorted to a bad mimic of a smile. "Afraid of what we'd do next maybe."

Jonathan deflated. "You capture and torture vampires?"

"We _hunt_ you vermin," he corrected, idly feeling his gun. "You two are just special cases. Walked here and made it easy for us."

 _Leech. Vermin. Again._ It wouldn’t be a surprise to know those were the only words taught to them as infants.

Jonathan set the table back into place.

What did he get himself into? Presenting himself on a silver platter at the lion's den? He couldn't die like this. He sat back on the chair, head cradled in his hands and deep in thought. What could he do? _Beg?_ All that would get him was another bullet through his body. He _could_ try to escape. Play dead maybe. They’d have to get rid of his body eventually. Then he’d bounce off and run—into a courtyard full of more people that could shoot him.

"How does she smell?" the man interrupted.

"Pardon me?"

"Quit it, _leech_."

There was no point in provoking the man. Jonathan relented. "Sickening—" He dwelled on the word. "Sickeningly appetizing."

“Hungry, Reid?” he asked again, firmly. “Go on.” The doctor sat quietly. He sighed, scratching at his stubble. “If this door weren’t here, you’d be tearing my throat out, so what’ll it be?”

Jonathan closed his eyes in disbelief. He stood, gaining the other man’s attention, inhaled deeply, then darted to the door. “You can’t be serious. I’m sober. I’m awake—this _isn’t_ a nightmare. But it defies all logic I swore to!”

The hunter pursed his lips, uttered a blasé ‘hmph’, and crossed his arms.

“How would you even make certain I’m a vampire?”

The man paused. “Prove you aren’t.” He left the bars for a minute and reappeared with a satchel in hand. “Take it.” He unlocked the door, swung it open, then tossed the bag at the other’s feet, before locking the mechanisms back in place.

The action was perplexing to say the least, but Jonathan wouldn’t take the opportunity for granted. He reached down to grab the bag, then settled it on the table and freed its contents—a single hard bun.

Jonathan eyed it, realizing what the man expected him to do. “Alright then.” He took it in his hand and bit down quickly, expecting much less his body’s reception to it.

His face turned bitter to an almost impossible degree, eyes squinted and nose scrunched. Froth formed at his mouth when he struggled to dislodge it, and he beat on his chest.

“What’s the matter, doc? Cold bun too hard for your delicate teeth? Seasoned too aggressively?”

“I served in the war, mind you,” he retorted, finally managing to spit out the vile piece of bread. “This isn’t the worst I’ve had. Not dirty at least.” He dropped the rest back on the table and wiped his face across his relatively cleaner sleeve.

They could have tampered with it, though Jonathan couldn’t imagine why. Should he ask for another? No, there would be no point. None of this even made sense anymore. And what were the chances his captors _wouldn’t_ poison the food?

He sputtered, even the partial taste having caused such an unsavory reaction. “What do I do?” His neck felt dry, visualizing what could’ve happened had he actually ingested it all.

“You tell me, blood-drinker.” The man rested his arms on the bars in a show of boredom. “Got better things to do than watch you make a mess of yourself.” He turned to look behind him. “Tell Randall I’ll be joining you this shift,” he said, then spun his head to look back at the doctor.

Footsteps made their way from the cell and drifted out of hearing range. From behind the burly man he could tell that it was already sundown, the shadows earlier on the left moving gradually through the hours until they made their current position on the right wall.

“Have the boys fetch you a rat or some pest if you _fancy_ those,” the man grunted out. “And I’m Geoffrey McCullum. Like I said, doesn’t matter—one wrong move and your brain is on the ground anyway,” he said with finality, moving out of sight.

Once more Jonathan resigned to his chair and desk. Nearly a day had passed and he hadn’t uncovered any more of his dilemma. “I am not like _them_.” He regarded the still uneaten portion of bun and contemplated trying again. Moving it between his fingers before mustering enough courage, he took a small nibble before his will could falter.

“Not bad,” he forcefully said, swallowing through gag reflex and placing the rest of the bun back, then letting himself collapse on the desk to rest again. It was going to be fine.

⁂

His rest was fitful—the last he’d experienced so awfully was some way back in childhood. He had awoken several times that one night, couldn’t remember why, but it had been his first choice to approach his father, Aubrey, in bed. Despite him still stirring intermittently, the warmth and comfort his father gave was more than enough. He’d awake, cry, then be lulled back to sleep. But Jonathan wouldn’t tarry. Aubrey left early on in his life, the only somber clarity in his more or less forgetful blur of a past.

Jonathan decided to be productive then. If sleep wouldn’t come to him then there was no point in chasing after it. He traipsed round and round in an attempt to stimulate his thoughts, which were often disrupted by the unwanted surging of his thirst. _Hunger?_ It was difficult to describe—if someone asked him right then what it felt like, what would he say? An empty sensation, ebbing and rising, swelling and moving. The feeling blended in and out of awareness but never truly left. It gnawed constantly—and what he wouldn’t give to do away with it.

The lights were off, though Jonathan didn’t really notice much of a difference anymore. His eyes were adjusted to the dark by now, he would have thought. He scanned the room— _escape—_ then laughed to himself quietly, reminding himself the probability of being shot again as soon as he got out, but he needed to focus on something, anything. And a risk to get out of captivity—which he willingly agreed to—was as good as any. Jonathan looked out again, sensing the presence of a lone guard outside his cell, a different person though asleep nonetheless.

_These men appeared to have no problems with insomnia, unlike he did._

He eyed the chair, inspecting its make, unable to determine what tree it came from exactly but feeling it sturdy enough. He grabbed it with both hands and bashed it into the wall repeatedly in hopes of dislodging a leg. His efforts didn’t go completely to waste—one survived. The rest became a mangled pile of splinters and chunks. But he’d die sooner from _lack of_ _things to do_ than a _lack of seat_.

That definitely made some sound, but he didn’t care. He would play it off as something else. _Oh dear me!_ Jonathan mused. _It appears the chair fractured from the weight of my body. I’m quite as baffled as you, sir._

“How suspiciously thrilling,” he deadpanned to himself. The stress would turn him hysterical soon.

He prodded the walls with the chair’s leg loose in his hand, looking for loose bricks or an opening of any sort. Not finding anything of interest, he began knocking, then kicking, then slamming with the wood leg. Something snapped in him and he was lashing out, unlikely considering his usually mild temperament.

Striking a hollow portion somewhere brought him to a pause and allowed time to calm. He examined it, tapping with his tool, and earning a satisfyingly empty sound.

A way out.

Slamming the base of the stick into the wall, Jonathan progressively chipped away at it, inspecting his work when the hole was decently sized, maybe a foot tall, two feet wide.

 _Feet..._ he thought to himself, a pair of them actually scrambling fast to his cell. He turned quickly and tossed the leg into the corner.

A voice reprimanded the supposed guard watching Jonathan, to a terse reply of ‘sorry sir’ and ‘won’t happen again’.

“You’re causing one hell of a racket. You know that right?” The man who Jonathan recognized as the one who shot him, said with a slack of his arms, revealing a bundle of clothes that likely wouldn’t fit very well. “Came here to deliver something you could wear.”

Jonathan stiffened, unsure if the other man could see the hole in the dim light. “I’m grateful.” He walked in a straight line to the door.

“No apologies for that _hole_ in your shoulder, yeah? Needed to stop you,” he said. “Wouldn’t have died anyway.”

Stopping at a distance from the door, Jonathan waited, noting how the man said _hole_ , hoping to God he would leave without finding anything amiss.

He handed the clothes through the bars, to the vampire—who made no sudden movements, lest he startle the man or reveal his attempt to escape.

Squeaks came from behind Jonathan, a small dark creature walking through his legs.

The other man raised his eyebrows, kneeling down to look at it. “What’ve you got there? Caught yourself a rat?” the man asked, chuckling darkly. “Going to feast on it?”

_A rat? It came from the hole._

Jonathan froze. “Oh… dear me.” He cursed himself for speaking with such obvious intent to hide something. “That does appear to be a rat. I’m as baffled as you—sir.”

He was going to die. The man was going to shoot him right there. Why out of all times did he panic at this instance?

“Right. I said just that.” The stocky man moved to adjust his outfit, eyeing Jonathan. “Keep out of trouble.” And then he was gone.

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to get out. The other guard had stirred and might actually catch on if he didn’t hurry. He replaced the stick into his hand and began again, pulling the last few bits off.

Through the bricks came a cold draft, but escape was still somewhat away, the hole leading out of the cell but not out of the fences. The gap was enough to exit through, but finding a way over—or dare he try under—might prove more difficult. He inspected the clothes tossed on the desk, a nondescript set of dark garments that concealed a majority of the arms and legs, a worn but clean coat, and gloves.

He undressed, the shirt held snugly in his arms, noting that his wound did in fact heal, and nicely at that. He continued to strip to his undergarments, not minding the _lack_ of chills, then stacked the dirtied clothes on the desk and suited up in his new ones. He admittedly didn’t need the coat for its warmth, but wore it out of fondness anyway. While he’d easily prefer his own clothes on any other day, wearing the reminder of his burial and _death_ was absurd.

Jonathan moved around to test the feel, finding them adequate. They wouldn’t hinder him should he need to run. He crawled through the hole with only a few scratches.

It was still cold out. He surveyed his position, hidden between the wall of his cell and the fence. Was the whole building just to house a single person? A _Skal_ or whatever he was, specifically? He didn’t feel the slightest bit honored, but regarded it nonetheless.

To one side was the barracks, soundly empty— _perhaps most were hunting—_ and to the other side was another wall. The fence wouldn’t be too high to climb upon further inspection. The rough walls of the cell could be used as footing, and alternated with the fence to raise himself. There looked to be barbed wire at the top, but he’d be able to jump it.

It was either step out into the courtyard, or scale the walls. He proceeded with the latter, but struggled to find a foothold.

“Weather’s been humid, eh?” a deep voice spoke out, Jonathan unable to pinpoint where it came from. “Whole thing’s plastered on me the entire time!”

Someone let out a bark of laughter. “Always been a problem, Todd? Gee, maybe get rid of a few layers! You’re worse than a nun,” the other person said, rounding the corner and coming into view. “Could suffocate an elephant in all that cloth.”

They shared a laugh, making a curve to the barracks and moving past the cell. Then backtracked.

 _Think._ Jonathan didn’t have many choices. They’d notice he was gone and call for backup.

The smaller of the two squinted into the cell. “It’s dark, mate. But the bar’s shut,” he stated loudly. “Hey Reid! You sleeping?”

“Of course he ain’t sleeping! Leeches do that in the morning you dunce.” They lit a torch.

 _Run._ Jonathan made an awkward turn out and sprinted. The door was wide open, the two guards confounded from the empty cell. He took a chance, swerving to push them into it.

They shouted in unison, falling into each other and forwards through the cell, feet sticking out, which Jonathan promptly kicked aside. Jonathan slammed the door shut, hating himself for forgetting to hold up the keys—which clattered to the floor.

 _Which one!?_ There were too many. _Guess_! It didn’t work.

A guard shouted, hand outstretched and thrusting heavily.

Jonathan hurled the keys at his face. A snarl of frustration left him, but the prisoner was already gone.

“The doctor leech is out!” he bellowed, throwing himself outwards and setting for a chase. “Watch the gate!” He rubbed at his eye.

 _Somewhere high. Somewhere with cover!_ A bullet brushed his leg, another piercing his coat. An open balcony taunted him, piles of crates in the path. _He could boost himself up with those._

Jonathan counted mentally.

 _One_. Bullets went past him.

 _Two._ There was no where else to go.

 _Three_. The Guard of Priwen lined the gates and walls.

 _Four_. His hand burnt with a shot. He wasn’t going to make it.

 _Five_. He hopped on the first crate, then the next, and then leapt for the balcony—he miscalculated.

He braced his body in anticipation for the fall. But he kept going, and then everything faded.

Momentum carried him forward. The wooden beams and floor of the balcony sounded loud under his feet, mist jutting out. _What happened?_ The world spun. Flat roofs set out like a huge hopscotch game. He landed on his arms and knees, collected himself, and ran.

The next jump was far. He vaulted over a half-wall, eyes open this time, willing himself to make it by all means. Everything left again, reappearing with him on the far side.

 _Impossible._ The gates bounded into view, Jonathan sloppily streaking across the sky but making it anyway.

The streets of Whitechapel laid out in the gloomy night, details normally obscure looking distinct in Jonathan’s vision. He made the final jump, falling from a great height into a roll. Shouts erupted from behind, guns raised and people sprinting in pursuit.

He weaved through the roads. The wind grew intense after a while, and dark clouds began to form. The night was young.

 _Run. Get away. Then find some place to hide._ He chanted his mantra internally. It was a plan, no matter how badly thought-out. He only grew uncertain as he zoned farther from Priwen territory, but he was unwilling to _cave in_.


	3. Departed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the first story arc, which focuses on Jonathan's struggle to find where he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if characters act differently from how they would in the game. Next arc will probably start in a week~ish. Thanks for your support ;p

“Well move it then!” Geoffrey McCullum barked at the scout. “Tell the others. Find Reid. Kill that piece of shite if you have to!”

“Sir!” He saluted then broke into a quick jog back to headquarters.

A considerable assembly of men stood in rows behind Geoffrey. The rain had begun to pour again, but they held steadfast. A voice roared over the torrential waves.  _ Captain Randall. _ He’d lead the first patrol into West End. Two other voices followed suit, signaling their own troops to Pembroke and the Docks respectively. The rest of Priwen were to watch over headquarters. That left Geoffrey McCullum to lead Whitechapel.

“Is this truly necessary?” A younger voice asked. “It’s one leech. A newborn at that! Hasn’t even fed,” he pressed.

Geoffrey shut his eyes. He should have known. The doctor was different, carried a distinct aura with him, that stomach-sinking feeling. Crafty and clever, sure. And also of ancient blood.

That bastard wasn’t to be taken lightly, and neither should the one that sired him.

He chewed on his lip. “That’s right, Matt. Top priority,” he said. “God help  _ him  _ when we catch up.” He moved into a march, everyone falling into place behind him, aside from Matthias who walked by his side. “Head or heart! Whichever you can aim for! Split up if you want—we ain’t girl scouts—but go with a group of four, a pair at least. Don’t go alone. And never, get lost in their eyes!” Geoffrey went through the standard Priwen procedure. A unanimous cry of attention boomed from behind him, and he smirked.  _ Taught them well. _

They’d make a loop around the old bridge into the narrower parts of the district. The lower banks weren’t traversable in the current weather. They’d be swept off immediately. But that wasn’t at all a bad thing. There’d be less places to go through, where the leech could hide from them.

Skals littered the streets like roaches. The rain seemed to have brought them out, moths to a light—or a flame, to their  _ deaths _ . They seemed agitated, scampering and sniffing around madly. The rain bothered living men, but didn’t normally affect the mindless, vicious beasts. A few strayed close but ignored the Priwen guards, perhaps looking for someone else. But it was storming—rain throwing them off, leaving them easy pickings.

Geoffrey pulled out his saber, cleaving into one’s arm. Blood sprayed out in streaks, but the blade didn’t cut through. “Dumb oaf,” he grunted, kicking the skal off and taking out his crossbow. It scrambled back on all fours and charged, arm limp.

Its first swing nearly hit, and he blocked the next one with his weapon. Claws came upon silver, neither winning out. Geoffrey heard his men confront the rest of them. Another Skal joined the one he battled. Two-on-one was easy. He’d dealt with more while under his mentor’s wing. _Carl Eldritch._ He’d fight for _him_. For the only father he’d truly had.

_ An opening!  _ He sheathed the blade on a belt across his back. The Skals lunged at the same time, disappearing into the air and coming up at his sides. They clawed ferociously, but Geoffrey was ready. He dodged, then turned his rear on one and leaned against it, ignoring its screams as he loosed an arrow into the other’s crown. Claws landed on his back but failed to penetrate, wedged between the blade and gun and impeded by his thick coat—as well as the lack of space he’d given it to wind up a proper blow.

He turned, hooked the Skal in the cheek, then kicked it again. Matthias came in to blast its head with a revolver. Frenzied screams mingled like static in the rain. A dozen or so Skals in assortments of mutilated parts stained the streets red before the blood washed away.

“I’m sending the injured men back to headquarters. Two of you accompany them. The rest follow me.” Four raised their heads to protest, but Geoffrey lifted his hand in disapproval. “You’ll be of no use if you die today,” he jeered, with a hint of concern, one that only his men could work out.

In a line of work with constant death, one would learn to live what they had, and who they shared their only living moments with—a brotherly camaraderie that spoke more volumes than with kind words.

Six men left, nineteen continuing their patrol.

“Noticed that? Geoffrey asked. “Leeches were busy with something before we got here.”

Matthias nodded. “Could be Dr. Reid,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t much help sir. Not very used to this yet. It’s a different deal from regular training.”

Geoffrey laughed wetly. “You did good. Better shot than a lot I know.”

“You’re not taking your meds.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s just a cold.”

Numerous packs of Skals would come up recurrently. There looked to be no end that night, so they only dispatched those immediately in their path. Though it was a perfect time to exterminate the lesser vermin—Reid was still unaccounted for—and if their findings were right, he would prove a serious risk.  _ Especially _ in his unfed state.

They crossed the bridge and took a road back to complete the first round. The slog was terribly wet. All men were soaked from head to toe and though they treaded on without complaint, it wasn’t right to keep them there. Some sites were already knee-deep, and by the third time they came around, the traversable routes were shortened and separated so severely that unless they waded through the worst of the flood, they wouldn’t be getting anywhere.

The Guard of Priwen. Hardened and reckless, and loyal to a fault, but that was understandable. It wasn’t a work of money after all, but one of choice. War and flu ravaged homes across the nation, not to mention the  _ leeches  _ that made all matters even worse. Those men with him, they were what remained. They had nothing else to lose, so devoted themselves to fighting for the people, for vengeance. He could see it in their eyes, the way they walked, their mannerisms even. Their mirth betrayed sadness. 

_ There wasn’t a bond stronger than love, and greater hatred than borne from blood. _

“Storm’s unrelenting,” Geoffrey said off-handedly, but loud enough for most to hear. “Think it’s about time we call it a night.”

The men stood their ground, their voices mixing in various intensity of refusal. Of course they’d want to keep on the hunt even through the flood and rain.

“You’re gonna get us killed. Bunch of stubborn fucking prats, yeah?” Geoffrey said with pride, and they exploded into laughter. “Let’s get this done then! Branch through the alleys. Assemble back here in an hour or so. You see the doctor, find the others! Don’t confront him alone.”

Nineteen split further into groups of three to five, with Geoffrey leading Matthias and another guard to a route by a pawn shop.

“Sure  _ you  _ don’t need rest sir?” the dark haired cadet piped up.

“Feel like lard,” Geoffrey admitted reluctantly. “Hadn’t slept a wink in two days. But yeah, just keep on with it. We're not stopping until dawn.” He adjusted his scarf to better cover his neck.

The storm chilled them, succeeded periodically by gusts of wind that bit on their bodies harshly, and the ever rising flood. Finding a needle in a haystack? Difficult. Finding a filthy leech among hundreds of other filthy leeches in rain so heavy he could only see several feet in front of him? Was it even doable? Geoffrey hoped so. He hacked a particularly nasty phlegm out.

“Hmm?”

Something felt off. He spun around in an attempt to catch the onlooker. A tree swung violently in the wind, the sound of its rustling leaves would’ve been blaring if not smothered by the equally loud downpour. ‘Clangs’ of aluminum cans and sheets announced several garbage bins toppling, other parts flying off into the air.

Then he saw them. A pair of green eyes in a window—glowing eerily through the dim streetlights. They were motionless, watching, and he nearly considered it a trick of the eye. Then it blinked, and he blinked, and in that second it was gone.

“Shit,” he said. “Got a leech watching us as well.” He never got a good look at the doctor’s eyes, but he could tell those weren’t his. They were harder, wiser, one of an old vampire’s.

“Just watching us? It’s not Reid?” Matthias asked, eyes searching the scene with a hand to block the rain. “Could be dangerous. We might want to warn the others.”

“Hmm...”  _ With the storm in full swing it would be dangerous to go alone, when all it takes to lose communication is a flash of lightning or a brief cascade of rain. _

“I’ll go sir,” the cadet offered. “I know the way back. Just stay put yeah?”

Geoffrey shrugged, thought about it, and nodded once. “Go. Call the others. Me and Matthias’ll keep whatever busy.”

It was somewhat drier in the alleys between the buildings. The rain fell at an angle, unable to land directly on them, and instead striking the walls, settling to fall down in sheets.  _ Like a waterfall.  _ Geoffrey had never seen one of those, but he figured it was close enough. And if they were any bit like the soggy, grimy mess they were in now, he wasn’t sure he’d want to.

“I hear something.” Matthias followed the noise with his head. “Sounds like a leech—feeding,” he whispered uneasily.

“Can’t hear it. Must’ve gotten water down my ear holes,” Geoffrey quipped. “Maybe just me being sick.” He struggled to locate the sound. “You lead then?”

“But you told Jay we’d wait!”

“I told him to ‘go’, that we’d keep whatever it is busy.” He grinned.

Matthias let out a huff of disbelief. “Sir  _ you’ll _ get us killed!” He started moving anyway. “Fine,” he said with scorn, but his movements gave some excitement away.

They headed out into the main road and stopped, the sounds stilling for a moment, then returning at full force. They then continued through a small passage.

_ Eat. Satisfy your urges. _

Squelching and popping resounded loudly through the corridors and back to their ears. “Fuck.” Matthias’ will flagged. “Sounds so horrid!”

Something snapped. Something wet.

_ Yes. It will sustain you. But it’s not enough. _

“We’re close.” Geoffrey took the lead, running deeper and making a right. “Dumb vermin,” he grumbled. “Looks like we’re heading to Southwark.”

_ More. _

“The hell is it coming from? Damn maze this is!” he shouted.

The  _ sickening  _ sounds— _ what a liar that doctor was _ —heightened. “The body dump?”

They exited into a clearance from the buildings, rain subsiding to a drizzle. The place reeked, dank and putrescent. At the center was the makeshift cemetery. Geoffrey rested his eyes and breathed.  _ It felt all too familiar.  _ He opened them again and looked over the area. “There! It’s by the shack!”

_ Your meal lays itself down for you. They come. You will feast. _

Skals akin to dolls were thrown in various places, numbers closer to the small wooden building, but there were no signs of civilian casualties. A low growl made Jonathan’s presence known. It was definitely him.

Geoffrey took out his saber, and Matthias held his gun. They rounded the corner and beheld the  _ abnormal _ .

“Reid!”

The man was on his arms and knees, wheezing and sputtering. Bloody spittle shot out of his mouth, dripped down his dark lips, and onto the Skal’s body below him. He avoided glancing up, but felt their presence—all too strongly.

_ Look up, voyeur of birth, of death. It calls.  _

He can’t. He might not stop. Might never be satisfied.

“Christ…” Matthias’ face turned nasty. “The smell is so much worse here!”

_Open your eyes._ Jonathan opened them. _Good. Are you hungry? Are you frightened?_ He nodded pitifully. The voice in his head— _whose_ _was it?_ _His? The devil’s?_

_ Now feast _ —

He gnashed his teeth at the fallen Skal’s neck, blood gushing into him and filling every muscle and nerve with fiery vigor. The taste was unbelievable, beyond that of any meal he’d ever had.

Geoffrey backed up to make space. The leech’s eyes drifted onto them for a second. What went through its mind, he didn’t know—but it must’ve tried distracting itself from  _ their  _ blood with the  _ Skal’s. _ “Tch.”

Jonathan retched on the floor again, his outfit saved from the worst of it. His insides burned caustically, but he’d do it over and over. How many times? How many had he killed?

Waste and blood coated his hands and knees as he fell to all fours, grieving. His skin was severely ripped in places, abrasion from repeated slipping and chafing. Blood pooled with bile in gruesome display.

“What do we do!?” the younger man cried out.

“Put it out of its misery,” Geoffrey said, taking out his revolver and lining it up.

Jonathan raised his head up to look at them, to ask for help—for mercy. But his body denied. He didn’t see two humans. Only his next meal. He let out a scream, though more miserable than feral.

Two shots pierced him and he lost all control. Shadows chained Matthias to the ground, and he fell over yelling. In the next instance, Jonathan gripped Geoffrey by the throat and lifted him up.

The hunter flexed his arms, flailed them, willing them to move but to no avail. The hands were deathly tight and quickly cutting off blood flow. He was losing consciousness and couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck—ing leech!” Geoffrey managed. “Your goddamn—damn  _ hypocrite’s  _ oath!”

Jonathan’s head was lowered and snarling, but rivulets slid from his eyes. He bit on his own mouth hard enough to bleed, pulling the man closer to his jaws. Geoffrey struggled, knocking Jonathan roughly but failing to break free. A pocket watch fell from his trousers and smashed to the floor, revealing a small yellowed  _ photograph _ .

Black fractals crept around the hunter’s vision.  _ No!  _ He ground his teeth, tried his hardest to free himself from the leech’s superior strength, then stilled.

“You bastard! Let him go!” Matthias got to his feet unsteadily, still held in place.  _ His gun! He needed to move quickly.  _ “Die!” He shot and missed the doctor’s head, tried again and struck the floor. “Fuck!” He threw his head back and broke down in futile anger.

_ Is this what he’d become? Good grief…  _ he choked on a sob. The photo swept across the floor. He didn’t bother to look after it, knowing fondly what it held.    


_ Him and his dear sister. The first time they beheld the world, opening their eyes together, cradled in their parents’ arms.  _ How he yearned for that time again. Where did it all go?

_ Slipping through his fingers… _

Jonathan threw Geoffrey towards the other man—who scrambled over to him. He then clutched his own head, disappearing through smoke several times, on the floor, by the walls, screaming, pleading.  _ Resist it. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t a _ —

“You’re a fucking monster! That’s right!” Matthias shouted. “But you don’t have to act like one. You don’t need to  _ be  _ one...”

And the words stung, hard, because they were wrong. He couldn’t. At least not for much longer. 

Jonathan pulled himself together, approaching them carefully, then wrapped his bloody fingers on Matthias’. He lifted the man’s hands and brought the gun to his temple with shuddering breaths.

Matthias looked him in the eyes, finger tight on the trigger and wanting nothing else but to kill the leech—to make it out alive with his leader. But he couldn’t fire.

“Please,” Jonathan whispered hoarsely. His body trembled with need, with pain.

There was no reply, only Matthias’ soft panting.  _ It wasn’t humane. Jonathan was a leech, but he was trying. He didn’t want this any more than them. _

“I wonder... how dying feels. When I was made a  _ monster _ —I had no choice, no awareness of it.” Wet footsteps bounded in the distance. “Now, I’m tired. I don’t even care,” Jonathan lied. He was losing himself again. There was no time. He tried to wrestle the revolver from the man’s hands, firing a bullet into his own gut.

Gritting his teeth and finally taking the gun, he then took fire.

Click... Click... Click... He dropped it, and bent over to bash his head on the ground, quickly growing bloody. He couldn’t hear anymore, couldn’t see. He didn’t want this, to die, but it was a better alternative than to kill needlessly.

“Over here! McCullum was knocked out! Get the leech restrained!”

_ Hands wrapped around him roughly, and his lips twitched up for a second. Everything was red. Everything was black. And then nothing. _

⁂

He breathed. The lights were blinding.  _ Was he dead?  _ He moved his arms and knocked a sheet of cloth off. His body held remnants of agony, and still hungered.

“You’re awake,” came a small voice. The blanket was placed back. “Geoffrey’s pissed as hell. Took me an hour to get him to rest and stop trying to barge in. Had his gun and stake and everything.”

Jonathan closed his eyes. He wanted to regress back, _ no matter how childish it was.  _ It didn’t work. Never did,  _ not then not now. _

“I’m Matthias by the way, Matthias Bowers. Found your watch,” he said. “The picture was too wet though. Tore a bit at the sides.”

Jonathan heard something land on a table to his left.  _ The watch.  _ He tried to remember how he got it back—found it inside someone’s pockets, if he recalled correctly.  _ Ironic, those graverobbers, taking from the dead, and having the same happening to them.  _ And they kept the photo too.

“You could have killed him. Us.”

“I would have.”

“But you didn’t.”

The room was a warm orange, mostly plain with some shelves, paintings, and windows scattered around. Matthias stood at the foot of his bed. He wore a loose-fitting outfit that revealed up to his forearms. His hands—which were covered in tiny red marks and scratches—held up a small metal cage.

“You should eat.” Matthias dropped it by the bedside. “Don’t try anything funny. We have men posted just outside the room.”

Inside the cage were two rats lazily moving around. “I can’t believe this.”

“Consider it an act of peace?”

“No,” his voice strained. “I can’t  _ believe _ you’re making a patient eat  _ rats _ .”

Matthias looked at him abashed. “You know what you are. Stop making this so difficult for yourself, for us too,” he said. “We counted at least fifteen Skals by the shack alone. What you were doing _ — _ forcefully regurgitating their blood — was it any better than just  _ eating the damn things? _ ”

He was frightened at that time. They were caught off guard. Geoffrey was going to die, he was going to die. But he also knew, that Jonathan was more so. For he wasn’t only afraid _for_ _himself_. He was afraid of _losing himself_ too.

“I’ll... I’ll leave you alone then. Good day,” the man said, exiting the room quietly.

Jonathan rolled over. He wore a different set of clothes. Was he bathed? Changed? Not that he minded the intrusion of privacy—at least he was out of the vomit-and-blood-stained mess.

The rats paid him no heed.  _ Go for it?  _ He mulled it over for a bit.  _ He’d eaten far, far worse. That bun in particular? Horrid. _

Jonathan unhooked the latch, took out a rat, gave it the nastiest glare possible in under two seconds, then bit down on its belly. Its squeals died as he drained it, and he relished the taste. The nearest open window was to the other side of the room. Still lying down on the bed, he held the rat back in a throwing pose, then launched it mightily.  _ Into orbit it goes.  _ He did the same for the second rat, this time managing to evoke a ‘what the hell’ from several men below.  _ They didn’t fly out into space, but at least that was payback for shooting him. _

“That’s it then,” he muttered quietly. “Fine.” He didn’t bother wiping the blood off his mouth.

He lay down to try to sleep.

_ That which filled his lungs, did it not also fuel fire? Some day he’d need to learn. To give up, to stop breathing. _

And so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked the POV transition in the original version so I kept it (during the Geoff/Matt/Jon scene). It might've confused some people but oh well. The last part has a minor POV switch also, where Matthias has his thoughts for a paragraph. I wanted to try to edit that out somehow, but couldn't find a way. So yeah.


	4. Aberrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vampire collaborating with vampire-hunting specialists? That's odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the start of the second arc (which might take longer to update because it's a pretty busy week in uni)
> 
> I'm not sure how long the story will be anymore. 12 was my original guess from my drafts+outlines but yeah things changed. Also, the chapter's a bit all over the place (my lack of writing experience is showing). Still, I hope it's enjoyable.
> 
> A few word changes were made in previous chapters but nothing that would change the story in any meaningful way.
> 
> Thanks for your support.

The world was dirty red, a haze. _Moving, halting?_ Perception felt arbitrary. Someone shouted—a woman. In her hand she held a knife, no, a cross. Violently swinging, screaming, crying. Something painful struck his shoulder. _Fight back._ One hand gripped her neck, knocking the weapon off and sending her into a tight lock. She didn't struggle. Fangs landed on her neck and began to devour her, blood running through cold veins. The euphoria was immeasurable, completely satisfying physically and inwardly, brutally. And then there was a scent of lilac.

 _My sweet brother_ ... _what have you done?_

Jonathan woke up with a start, clutching his chest. A cold breeze swept through the room, not that it bothered him, since he’d long resigned to feel like frozen meat. But the open window jarred him anyway. It was—he checked the pocket watch—eleven at night. The tiny mechanisms and hands weren’t a difficulty even in the near black of the room, a welcome perk to his affliction at least.

He looked around, sitting up and composing himself. Everything seemed otherwise normal. The shelves were untouched, nothing disturbed, yet he didn't feel alone. _Another vampire perchance?_

"Who enters my room?" No response. "I ask you to leave," he called into darkness, the air around him dour. Boisterous chants and talks of various men were carried a great distance from below. The night wasn’t quiet.

"How charming, sending a lady away on the first meeting." She was on the windowsill, and though he couldn't quite see her, he could sense her presence. The window— _it was clear just a second ago._

"My apologies. What brings you to Priwen territory at this time of night? Don't you know they're not quite an amicable bunch?" He stood to approach her.

"I might ask the same to you."

He waited, realizing she had no pulse. "Yes, I'd wondered that myself. They treat me like game. How I haven’t died yet, nor escaped for good, I’m not quite sure." Was she dangerous? _Certainly not savage like Skals_ , but he didn’t let his guard down.

She gave a dainty laugh. "Oh believe me, they can do much worse than that." She came out of the shadows and revealed herself, fair skin and sunset-like hair, vibrantly stunning even in the dark. "I'm here to know more about you. You had made quite a commotion since your rebirth."

"That seems to be true," Jonathan agreed, showing a smile. "I awoke to a hole in my shoulder, and had since then been coerced into captivity."

“That’s horrible… how ever did that happen?” she cooed. “Hmm, could you tell me about your maker?” Her eyes were deep green, the same shade of his mom’s old earrings. They shone in the dark, and he wondered what his would’ve looked like, and what ordinary men would make of them.

“I don’t know what you mean. My _maker_?” Clearly, she wasn’t referring to his parents. “All I remember is—” He paused. “All… I can’t really recall what happened.”

She pursed her lips. "Oh," she said simply, knitting her brows together. "Well, I'm afraid we hadn't even introduced ourselves. I'm Elisabeth Ashbury. Good to meet you, young Ekon," she teased.

"I am Dr. Jonathan Reid, and you confuse me, my lady."

"Are you? I'm quite so as well. Very odd, how your maker hadn’t shown themself to you." She moved to get a better look at Jonathan. "It's not genteel."

He thought for a moment. "But I've been hearing voices, sometimes not my own. And in other times I think they're mine," he paused. "But I don't know if they really are."

“Was this before or after?”

The sound of leaves crushed under his boots. Thick fog and darkness, a tremulous voice on the air.  “No… both. It talked to me throughout, in my head.” His spine felt cold. “That’s it. Next thing I was left for dead in a dump.”

"I see. We Ekons are a rather... social class. To leave one's progeny isn't unheard of, but also frowned upon. And voices? It’s possible... Are you sure you're not just mad?" She smiled.

"Believe me my Lady, I do wish I was mad, and none of this were real.” Jonathan moved to lean on the wall. “An Ekon? Is that what I am?" Jonathan asked, and she nodded. “Can you tell me more about us? Must we consume blood?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, flicking her eyes towards the door. _The guards must've noticed._ "I have to go. Perhaps we can meet again. I know Dr. Swansea would like to. Do pass by Pembroke Hospital should you have the time."

The door swung open, and a curious head popped in. He had a black eye, and glared at Jonathan. "What seems to be the commotion, leech? Someone's been here?"

"It's quite alright. I've been talking to myself to keep sane," he lied. The window was already closed.

“Tch.” The man lingered at the doorway. "Don't appreciate what you did to my eye, you know."

“You—” Jonathan resisted raising his voice, opting instead to grumble his words out. "—You men had put more bullets in me than the war—you know."

The man grunted, muttering something unholy under his breath, and Jonathan went back to bed. He reminded himself that he was still their prisoner. Sleep came, eventually. Not like he had other things to do.

⁂

Rays of light streaked across and landed on the far side of the room. The morning was mellow and relatively silent. Most of the windows were blocked or shut in with curtains. _Thoughtful,_ Jonathan realized, standing up and walking close. He never did get to test if the sun could harm him. Myths said yes, and the obvious effort to isolate him supported that, but would it hurt to find out?

He stood by the edge of the light, like a mime in an invisible box, or a child viewing an aquarium. Leaning in, he suddenly wasn't quite sure of himself. What if he burnt to a crisp? What if his hand just disintegrated? What if—

The door blasted open, and Jonathan barely caught himself from falling forward. For a moment, his arms crossed the light, and his thoughts came to fruition— _nothing happened_. There was some phantom discomfort, but otherwise he was fine.

"Hey, Leech! Reid was it?" The man found Jonathan clutching his hands together, trying to keep a straight face. "Okay." He cleared his throat. “Captains Randall and Casey wanted to… convene with you.”

“Ah, of course,” Jonathan said politely. “Now then?” Priwen seemed to wear different outfits during the day, almost casual. They probably wouldn’t be hunting in the morning—he noticed the man’s pistol and knife—but that didn’t stop them from carrying weapons anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “This way. They’re just on the other side of the building.” He held the door open for Jonathan, and they exited to a hallway.

The walls were an off-white color framed with wood, and had bare decor. A few potted plants, doors, and stands lined the left wall, while barricaded or curtained windows filled the right. Jonathan looked back, seeing his room number to be 213, and situated at the end of the hall. A few armed men watched them as they continued down the passage a while, before making a turn and entering the antechamber. This one had a higher ceiling and stairs leading both up and down to one side. To the other was a large door, loud voices talking behind it. And if Jonathan strained his senses, _three_ heartbeats.

He could make out some of what they said. _Dangerous. Put down. Cooperate._ And his all-time favorites, _leech and vermin._

The man stood by the door, gesturing him in. “What are you waiting for?”

Jonathan gripped the handle and eased the door open. Three men sat around a wide table. One was Geoffrey, and he guessed the other two were the captains.

“What the hell is _it_ doing here?” Geoffrey’s voice boomed. He stood up and grabbed his revolver. “Whose idea was it?”

Jonathan took cover behind one of the two pillars by the door. “Stop! Don’t shoot!”

The man to Geoffrey’s left banged his head on the table. “Cut it out man! We’re here to negotiate.” He raised his hands in a show of submission. “It was me alright? We need to talk about this.”

The other captain leaned back into his chair, as Geoffrey continued. “Yes we do. We _,_ Cas, not the _leech._ ” His words held a certain vehemence to them.

“Hold it for a sec. We invited him so we could hear his side,” Cas said. “Let’s not start another fight.”

“Fine,” Geoffrey groaned, sitting back down with a scowl. “I said this once and I’ll say it again. Watch yourself, Reid.” He set the gun in front of him.

“Would you sit?” the larger of the two captains said to Jonathan. “I’m Casey. That’s Randall.” He motioned to the other man with a hand. “And you’re Dr. Jonathan Reid, blood transfusion specialist, and _blood-sucker.”_

If there was any ill intent behind the words, Jonathan didn’t know. He left the pillar and walked forward to the table, nodding and taking a seat. The place wasn’t overly large and was scarcely furnished, as what seemed to be the trend in the area. “Pleased to meet you. I’m under the impression this isn’t a simple dinner party.”

Geoffrey groaned again and the two Captains exchanged glances. _They really weren’t fond of leec_ — _vampires, were they?_

“Alright... Let’s set things straight first,” Casey began. “You attempted jailbreak, even after turning yourself in. Then went on a rampage, endangering people and killing several Skals, and forcing us to launch hunting squads in all the nearby districts—”

“—And then he proceeded to fucking assault me and Matthias!” Geoffrey shouted.

Jonathan shouldn’t have been shocked by the outburst. “It was counter aggression! You shot me _twice_ in my hungry and pained state!” he yelled back.

The hunter reached for his gun again, and Casey blurted out expletives, scuffling with Geoffrey to let go, telling him to remain civil. Jonathan steeled himself, knowing full well the meeting wouldn’t end up in good will.

Geoffrey let out a frustrated exhale and stood, walking to the side of the room and leaning on the wall with livid attention, gun still in hand. “Right. I shouldn’t have shot you without thinking. But the fact you lost control at all doesn’t help your cause either.”

Casey nodded. “It is in your nature,” he said. “But there’s credit where it’s due. According to Matthias and the Whitechapel patrol that night, you _did_ relent. And you didn’t do any more than strangle Geoffrey to unconsciousness.”

“Disappointingly,” Randall said with mild sarcasm. “So give us a reason to not kill you on the spot. Right now. How will we be sure you can restrain yourself, be of service? Every leech is the same. That’s what we know of, what we’d been taught.”

“And so far, that's proven true,” the other captain continued, resting his arms on the desk. “We can’t just take your word of innocence. You’re a doctor right? Good at explaining things? Well here’s your chance.”

Jonathan paled. What was he to say? Right now his mind was clear, sated to some extent, but how long would that last? They stared at him with calculating eyes, as if picturing every method to dispatch him.

“I’m not sure. I really don’t know what you expect me to say.” They stared wordlessly, and he fumbled with his hands. “I must drink blood correct? What’s the difference from, say, people eating swine?” he asked. “I haven’t harmed a single human. That has to mean _something_.”

“Point taken. Do you know how different animal blood is from that of a human’s?” Randall adjusted his position from his seat. “Heard it’s addictive, more than one can explain with words...”

“We’ve seen your handiwork. Could take all three of us on at the same time, should you want to,” Casey said, catching on. “Let’s have a test shall we?”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. _A test?_ “Of what kind?”

“For your self-control. _Bloodlust_ , if you will.” Randall unsheathed a knife from his belt, and held it front of him, pointing it at Jonathan.

“I don’t think what you have in mind will end nicely, for you or me.”

The captain shrugged. “Your call. Regardless of what you do, you’re already on Priwen’s list.” He clicked his tongue. “But if you can prove yourself, then maybe you can do something else than rot away slowly in a room.”

Geoffrey slammed a hand into the wall. “It’s pointless! He’s just gonna—”

“—I’ll do it,” Jonathan interrupted. “But I’d like to know exactly what you expect me to do.” He turned around, noticing at least five more heartbeats outside the door.

“Right then, excuse me,” Randall said, leaving the room and sheathing the weapon.

Casey sighed. “Geoffrey you should sit.” He only got a snort as a reply.

The man returned to his chair, proceeding to glare at Jonathan, who only looked away in return.

“All you Ekons are conniving, but I do believe you have good intentions. Have a knack for personalities, yeah?” Casey said. “Randall’s coming back, and then we’ll see what we can do. Try thinking straight, sniffing on Geoffrey’s blood, hah!”

“What the hell Cas!?”

“I’m only joking!” He landed a swift punch on Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Take it easy. You know us.”

They talked for a while, Jonathan waiting patiently and watching the clouds pass. It had been around an hour since he awoke. A lot happened over the last three, four nights… Things wouldn’t go back to how they used to be. _And come to think of it_ , he still hadn’t informed his sister what became of him, nor what he planned on doing. And the vampire that came to him last night, he needed to see again, as well as Dr. Swansea apparently. _Life_ was simple. _Unlife_ was not.

He eased away from the chair to inspect the bookshelves. The building was full of them, and he wondered what they all contained. _Vampire hunting guides, and memoirs, probably_ . Though most likely not _all_ of them. He picked one up, realized the two men abruptly stopped their conversation to stare at him, then put it back. They were oddly testy with their books. He walked back to the chair unhurriedly, then resumed his cloud-gazing.

When Randall came bursting in through the door, everyone turned to look. He was panting like a dog, but waved off any attempt to ask if he needed help.

“There’s been casualties at the sewers. Two men were killed in a fight with a leech in there. Four others came out wounded, and one lost his arm. He’s losing blood like a fucking—”

“—They’re at the infirmary?” Geoffrey asked, and Randall nodded briskly. “The medics? Where are they?”

“Just checked with them. His squad got his arm wrapped but he needs immediate treatment. The only medic there right now is working on another patient.” He inhaled deeply. “It’s too much. He probably won’t make it. We don’t have enough time.”

“Damn it. Alright. Stay here, and we’ll see what we can do,” Geoffrey said, getting up and opening the door. “That means you, Reid.” They exited the room quickly. A few men stood outside. Apparently they heard the conversation, since they immediately began shouting their protests. But they didn’t clog the corridor, thankfully, staying at the sides.

“We have no other choice,” Casey said apologetically. “He’s the only doctor here, even if he _is_ a leech. And if anything goes wack...” He chuckled sadly. “This one’s got a bounty on his head.”

They made it to the ground floor, the breeze from the open doors wafting inside _almost_ pleasantly. He didn’t want to admit it, but he truly was nervous. The outside looked hot. Windy, but hot. His hands burned with phantom pain.

Geoffrey strode outside then cursed.“Shit. How do we do this?”

“ _Quickly_. And by our bloody rat’s ass luck, the infirmary’s on the other side,” Casey added, still standing beside Jonathan.

The door stood blindingly bright in front of them. Bare strips of shadows criss-crossed along the ground and walls. _If he ran fast enough…_ The potential danger loomed over him, still. _But it was a risk worth taking._ “Go! I'll think of something.”

It was uncomfortably silent. “Eh…” Casey hesitated, then sprinted out into the courtyard. “Well fuck it then!”

They bounded into the distance, as Jonathan stood. _It didn’t burn him earlier._ Was he really doing this? _It’s just a test._ He ground his teeth, pulled back his sleeves, and slipped an arm out. _Well?_ It was fine, enough. A bit of a prickling sensation maybe, but that could’ve just been psychological.

He pulled a sheet off a box and held it up as he ran, catching up to the other two.

“Bollocks that!” the captain said, looking at Jonathan incredulously.

They ran down the path, stopping at a building, then entered. “Fucking bite me,” Casey huffed out. “I’ll believe this isn’t a dream, for now. Go see what you can do.”

Jonathan closed his eyes to focus for a moment. He could already feel the man’s heart pumping. The scent of his blood moistened the air, red liquid splattered awfully on the hall’s floor, up until the door. It was getting hard to think.

“Was a bad idea, Cas. He can barely even keep himself from falling over.” The feeling intensified as soon as Geoffrey opened the door. Waves of heat washed over Jonathan, and the experience was nauseating if not pleasurable. _It would be so easy to just kill the men._ Geoffrey turned to face Jonathan. “No amount of walking in the sun is going to prove you human, but do this right and maybe I’ll consider you _humane._ "

They entered, and it was surprisingly still, though Jonathan knew better. It only meant the man had already fallen unconscious. He was propped on a bed, surrounded by four others, one holding his injured arm up.

“I’m Dr. Reid. I need to ask you—”

“With all due respect sirs, why the hell would you bring a leech here? Where’s Captain Randall?” A man with goggles asked urgently. “Tell me that’s not who you got to help us.”

“Damn you, of course we didn’t want this to happen, but he’s the only doctor nearby. Regardless, we already made our decision. Let him work.” Geoffrey motioned for them to move. “If he does anything, feel free to open fire.”

They got out of the way reluctantly, though the one holding the arm stayed. “What do you need to know?”

“How long has it been? When did he fall unconscious?” Jonathan looked around for the tools he needed. “You said he lost his arm…”

“Yeah well, looked to be the case anyway. Barely hanging on. We got here just under half an hour ago, and he stopped screaming on the way here,” he said. “Had to carry him. It was terrible just watching the man suffer.”

The man was ashen and weak, the sight tantalizing, but he couldn’t. It was his patient. This was his final means of normalcy. If he lost this, what would he become but a monster through and through? He gripped the tourniquet and carefully unwrapped it. His hands were bloody— _so bloody._ Slowly, it was fully removed and set aside. “The arm… it’s disconnected at the proximal humerus—his shoulder bone.” The only upside was the ability to see the man’s internals with incredible clarity, more than should have been possible.

“No one’s successfully reattached a limb before, moreso this big. If we had a full staff, I could try, but I won’t be capable of it alone,” Jonathan said aloud. “I need to amputate him. If not he’ll either die from shock, or infection. Or he might just bleed out.”

“Cut his arm off?” one asked. “What do we need you here for then? Thought you were a doctor, not some woodworker.”

“I…”

The patient began to scream loudly, but they could do nothing but watch.

“We couldn’t save them… not even Herbert,” someone from the back muttered. “We ought to let him try.” They tipped their heads down.

“I need disinfectants, gauze, some surgical thread and needle. Where are they?”

Casey reached into a closet, flipped open a metal box and retrieved the items. “These should be sterile enough. Gauze and bandages are in the drawers to your left.” He passed them to Jonathan, who thanked him quickly.

“And a saw…” Jonathan found one of the right size and asked Casey to disinfect it, as he prepared himself. “Alright. This is going to be unpleasant.” The patient was breathing too quickly.

“Anesthetics?” They didn’t have any. “You need to calm down. I’m a doctor. Take deep breaths. This will hurt. It’s alright to scream. But try not to move too much.” He assured the man that the procedure would be quick.

Jonathan gripped the saw and proceeded to cut into the shoulder. Blood oozed out messily and dripped down to his feet. He fought back a snarl, hitting bone and having the man’s shouts intensify, ear-gratingly loud and agonizing. Geoffrey and the others couldn’t turn away—even though most of them wanted to, but they couldn’t leave the leech unsupervised, especially with all the blood. The moment it cut through, Jonathan fell down to his knees. The floor spun under him, and he was determining whether to vomit or not. Voices chanted in the back of his head, whispering to him, insisting him to stop, to…

_He didn’t have time for this indecision and siren song._

Jonathan stood wobbly and growled. He laid a hand on the man, while the other prodded the wound. He’d need to carve the bone so it wouldn’t jut out. With an apology, he asked the man to brace himself again before he cut through. The screams stopped eventually, the man falling unconscious from the pain. The air felt too thick, and Jonathan grew worried how much longer he had. He sterilized the wound and proceeded to stitch it up. Within an hour, the sutures were in place and all that was left was to clean and redress it again.

But everything was distant. The floor stretched forward, shining. Jonathan held himself in his arms, struggling to keep his mind clear. The room was red, and though his body was cold, his insides were sweltering. His fangs emerged once more, and his eyes dilated.

The sounds of shouting were muffled, but he caught on to what they said. _Hold him down._ No… he wasn’t done yet. “Give me a moment. I’m not… finished.” Jonathan panted doggedly. He rinsed his hands and massaged his head, then unrolled the dressing. He was a doctor, first and foremost. Air filled his lungs in uneven gasps to cool him down somewhat. _It’s the little things that matter._

He inspected his work. Blood still leaked through, but it was the best he could manage. The man would probably live. “He needs to be monitored regularly. Have someone stay with him for the first twelve hours, see if he wakes up.” He faced the men, seeing that they were huddled together, engaged in some discussion. “There isn’t much else we can do. Change the dressing before tonight. Can’t risk further chance of infection.”

“We understand. Thank you doc,” one said stiffly. “It’s not every day you’d be willing to put your friend in the care of a… someone _different_.” He shrugged. “But it looks like we made the right choice. So yeah, thanks. We’d lost a lot today. We’ll take it.”

Jonathan nodded, moving to stand by the back of the room then waiting. Geoffrey and Casey exchanged a few words with the men, then motioned Jonathan to follow them out. They remained there for a while, Jonathan completely still, Geoffrey stretching his neck, and Casey pacing around.

“I do believe I’m making you uncomfortable,” Jonathan said with an air of indifference, but it was clear the bloody ordeal had taken its toll on him.

“Yeah,” Geoffrey replied. “Whole thing’s a problem honestly.” He exhaled through his mouth, tussling his hair and leaning on the wall. “I don’t know what to do with you. Would’ve been simpler if you’d just died back then. Now we’re dealing with _morals_ and _humane_ judgement _._ What a load.”

“Also the fact you walked through the sun plenty fine. Didn’t happen to feel anything?” Casey said. “Can’t say I’m not curious.”

“I don’t know. It feels unnatural, but I don’t think it’ll do much else.” The walls regained their colors slowly. He still felt unsteady, and his voice tightened. “Do you mind if I sit?” He walked down the hall and found a chair.

“What now?” The captain asked with a gruff voice. “Something’s up with Reid, but how can we make certain he won’t just turn on us?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “We don’t.”

“Alright, for another time. I’ll go find Randall and the others, have a discussion and whatnot. You’ll be okay on your own here?”

“Yeah. Go on and start without me. Might not even come,” he said. “I'll stay a while, talk.” And with that, the captain strode out of the infirmary. The leech was still on the chair, cradling his head again apparently. _Always deep in thought_. His back was slouched and turned away from Geoffrey, posture showing no sign of alertness.

The hunter walked past him, gazing out through the open windows. The breeze must’ve died earlier on, as the warmth of the sun seemed to be all that was left of the morning. Most of Priwen was asleep, as per what their occupation entailed. Geoffrey breathed, content to just stand for a while. He wanted to believe, that things could change. It was a pipe dream at best, but he was happy that he hadn’t lost that side of himself yet. For there was a time to be pragmatic, and a time to hope—he wasn’t as cold and heartless as he let on.

“You should know,” he started, looking down at his boots. “Whatever you are, whatever you _think_ you are… it’s different. To be fair, you’re dumb as a brick for turning yourself in. And turning yourself in _again_ , a second time, even after everything. We could’ve killed you. Tit for tat.”

If Jonathan heard him, he made no sign of it, so Geoffrey continued. “I’m taking my head out of my arse for a second here. My… father, came home one night. I was a wee lad. He acted off. Harder, colder, more dangerous. Of course, I didn’t know that.”

The man still did not react. “We weren’t a tight family, yeah? But… I’ll get to the point. He tore my mother’s throat out, stared me and my brother in the eyes. Carl Eldritch, the previous commander of Priwen, killed him right after, _in our faces_. I don’t know how long my da had been a leech, nor how long they’d pursued him. He worked nights past, bad company.” He shrugged. “But like that, we were homeless, parentless, without a single thread of hope. A lot happened after that, honestly, it was a blur…” he trailed off.

 _No... of course it wasn’t. He still remembered the day he’d killed his brother, who too had turned into a leech, a vivid nightmare that haunted him even in the waking hours._ He wished he didn’t… _remember…_ but that’s what made him who he was now, wasn’t it?

He paused, and Jonathan looked up to meet him in the eyes. The leech wore an expression he didn’t expect, one of understanding and… not _pity,_ but sympathy. “I don’t know who you are, where you came from. But that’s how most of us had it. Rough. And that’s hardened our hearts, sure, but for good enough reasons.”

“I can’t blame you.” The hunter was taken aback by the words.

“But you…” Geoffrey didn’t need another reply. “We’re not so different. Yeah, I see that now.” He sat down in front of the other _man_.

Jonathan nodded. “It’s difficult… to break a habit that feels like it could kill me, but I’ve already accepted that.”

“Well, learn a thing or two, Reid. You’re not like us. Never can be. But that doesn’t make you one of _them_ either. The mindless Skals, deceptive Ekons…” Geoffrey breathed slowly to calm his thoughts. “Back then, I had to kill my brother, who also became a leech. I didn’t give him a chance, struck him down in _cold blood._ ” Jonathan widened his eyes at the revelation, and his choice of words. “Always wondered if it was wrong of me. I still hadn’t made peace with what I’d done. It’s been over eight years,” he said. “But maybe, wherever he is, he’ll be glad to know I didn’t do the same to you. Don’t ruin our trust, how little that may be.”

Jonathan frowned. “Do you... remember that time, at the shack? I had you in my hands, and you said something to me. My _hypocrite’s_ oath?” he asked. “You do know it’s called the _Hippocratic_ oath, right?”

Geoffrey grunted, half-shrugging. What it meant, Jonathan had no idea. _This leech… how much of a pompous arse can he be?_

The vampire relaxed, letting out an innocent chuckle. “Anyway, thank you, Geoffrey McCullum. My condition, it’s a curse, I’m sure. And your brother must’ve known the same, if it helps any. I think he would’ve understood your decision.” Jonathan stood up and stretched. “This was good, I think, for both of us.”


	5. Inert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One doesn't get used to a life of "un-life" so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit messy, sorry. I had a bit of trouble separating the next events evenly so the last chapter (in this arc) would end how I wanted it to. I split two scenes from this, so it might be a bit of a cliff-hanger. Also, my schedule's tight right now (have a lot of work next week) so the 6th chapter could take a bit to upload (a week at most, sadly).
> 
> (There is a reason for everything.)
> 
> Enjoy.

An orange glow quivered in the evening’s shade. Glasses were passed, thrown, and smashed around, their contents soiling floor and wall alike. Someone was adding more lumber to the flames, the crackling hearth muted by comparably louder roars and encouraging cheers in the tavern. It had been a while—though he didn’t concern himself over actually checking the time—and he stood where he’d been for a guess of twenty minutes.

Jonathan still remembered his _utterly_ grand entrance, paraded with threats and weapons all pointed in his direction. Hesitant to have agreed to socialize, he had slowly backed away, before Randall pushed him back in, grinning madly like a comedian pulling a gag. The experience was memorable to say the least.

He’d never fancied gatherings, even lesser those that involved some degree of roughhousing. The walls were cold, nice, and free of any possible trouble. _This was fine._ The air reeked of alcohol. He’d never been much of a drinker anyway, but it proved a noticeable distraction from all the warm, intoxicated blood in the room.

Tables and bars were arranged—if one could even use that word—to seat at least five on each. The captain that suggested he come was nowhere to be seen, though Jonathan didn’t really need a chaperone. He’d do what he deemed fit. And that, apparently, was stand in the corner.

A jug of ale flew across him, landing on planked floor by another table of people. The attacked group launched another back, with provocative taunts and an insult to someone’s mother. Jonathan tried to recede further into the wall, failed, and made peace that he’d need yet another set of clothes by the end of the night. They continued on for a bit before eventually laughing the dispute out.

“Alcohol, the only problem _and_ cure to all man’s problems,” he whispered to himself.

“You think so?”

“I don’t know why I let you coerce me into this.”

“Well, the exposure is good for both sides.” Randall took a swig of his drink. “Oh that’s good. Mmm,” he said. “They aren’t keen on you here, more so you offering hands. I’m sure you feel the same.”

Jonathan looked around. To his disbelief, no one paid them mind. The aggression earlier, was apparently subdued by their tendency to want to _drown_ themselves. “Well I wouldn’t say I’m against the idea.” He was. “I don’t suppose I had much of a choice. Seemed to be the case ever since I was turned into _this_ , left in a dump, and gunned down—”

Randall coughed out his drink, inadvertently catching some with his gloves then just daubing it on his shirt. “You should quit that. Don’t know how to put this more lightly than ‘you’re a leech and we’re not killing you’, but you should really—” He took another swig. “—take it easy, yeah?”

“You’re not the one surrounded by dozens,” he guessed. “Of people armed with weapons to kill you.”

“It’s just a small bout carousing. Newer recruits love them for a good time.” Randall explained. “Take a seat, talk someone up—or not. Might even find you still have a taste for ale!” He laughed. “You play your part as lonely, sulking leech all too well. Hadn’t so much as left that room two days ago!”

People were singing a jolly, group tune, which wasn’t all that unpleasant, until someone pushed someone else and another fight started.

“Do you always bring weapons with you?” It had been on his mind for a while, and he didn’t know a better time to ask it.

“No. Not everywhere. Usually not at these roundups actually. Only a few would—but someone insisted they all do, just in case, you know… _you’re a leech_ _surrounded_ … you know what I mean.” Randall cracked a smile.

After a while, he patted doctor’s back roughly. “But at the rate it’s going, it looks less likely they’ll be using their weapons on you than on themselves.” He chuckled and walked to get another drink.

Jonathan sighed in relief, before realizing the captain was coming back with more than one drink in hand. “You got _two?_ Don’t knock yourself out too fast. It wouldn’t do well for me, should they see an unconscious captain in my arms.”

“Eh? This one’s for you.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Yeah well you’re a _gentleman_ right? And it isn’t very well-mannered to reject a drink.” He handed the glass of amber liquid to Jonathan.

Its scent was heavy, and not at all appealing to the doctor. “You do know I can’t consume anything aside from blood right? That’s the whole reason I’m your prisoner.”

“Just give it a go. It’ll be good, or it’ll be funny to watch. And do you really consider yourself a prisoner?” The captain sneered. “How long had it been since we kept you in that cell anyway? Since we’d—”

“—four days.”

Randall waved his hands dismissively, downing his in one go. Jonathan gave in and took a sip. The taste was indescribably _bad_. He stared Randall in the eyes, walked to a window and spat the drink out, then returned.

“ _My_ gentlemanly sensibilities tell me to thank you. I, however, have the mind to refuse.” He made a gag expression. “Hah, good effort though.”

“What a shame. One less thing for you to live for then.” Randall said. Jonathan didn't miss the pun, smiling wryly. “You settling in okay?”

“Better than I thought initially. Anything’s an improvement to a cell,” he remarked. “I didn’t expect that a vampire hunting organization would be so willing to house a vampire.”

The captain twirled the glass in his hand thoughtfully. “Hmm, yeah,” he agreed. “Weird isn’t it?”

A flushed youth waddled over, calling Randall’s name and tugging on his vest, asking him to help with a dare of some sort. “Alright, Reid. This bloke’s got a job for me. I’mma go. You do your thing.” And the two were gone.

He stood there for a while longer. A table flipped over, and the man sleeping on it rolled to his side, still unconscious. His mates whooped in applause and then promptly left the man—then Jonathan decided to leave.

 _Elisabeth Ashbury, was it?_ She could answer his questions. And then he’d need to pay a visit to Dr. Swansea and his sister. A man stood by the exit door, and opened it when Jonathan approached. He thanked the man and made his way out to find his living quarters.

The travel was short, as he just shadow-dashed halfway through. The movement dizzied him the first few times, but he’d gotten the hang of it. Eventually it felt natural, like using his hands to write, and feet to walk, and obviously more efficient than the latter.

Almost no light came from inside the building. It was late after all, and not a lot of people inhabited it anyway. _A large part of it was a… an archive of sorts, to store their documents and artifacts. An archive of Priwen’s own._ He entered, and walked up to his room, which was coincidentally next to _—why were the lights on?_

He sped down the hall and swung the door open, eyes barely adjusting to the bright fluorescent ceiling lights, before they abruptly shut with an audible shatter. “Who goes there?” He closed the door behind him, testing to click on the lights. Fragments of the bulb laid out on the floor.

It was dark, but Jonathan should have had no trouble seeing. The problem was _—_ he did. An even blacker void whirled in the blackness of the room. There was a presence, audibly quiet, and he knew what that meant. Jonathan was defenseless, without weapon nor escape route. It evoked him feeling combative, as though it stayed still, it felt sinister, different from the lady that had visited him the other night.

“Dr. Jonathan Emmet Reid,” a nasal voice spoke out. “Not quite what we’d expected, no.” What looked to be a void at first, now seemed more like smoke. “Why you would linger in this pound, I don’t know.”

“Why are you here?” he asked in a civil tone. “I’m Jonathan Reid, that’s correct, but how did you know? Is there anyone else with you?” London had never been as puzzling than when he came back. It was as if every day, the riddles of his existence grew more and more complex, and he was getting tired of it.

“Good question, Ekon, though not one that you can’t answer yourself, surely,” the presence hinted. “Do you not remember that disturbance you caused just mere days ago?”

Jonathan didn’t respond, examining the room instead. There should have been no entrances aside from the hallway door, and windows. He forced his senses harder, confirming that they _were_ alone in the room. But that could easily change in seconds. His eyes happened upon a large wall mirror. No one stood with him, no swirling dark mass, no disembodied head—just him, standing by the door.

“I ask you kindly, to leave. This is my residence as of now.”

“Oh is it?” the voice asked, amused. “If that were the case, then I would have had trouble getting in. Did you know that we Ekons cannot enter another’s home without invitation? Do you really consider this place yours?”

Jonathan pursed his lips. “I do.” But his voice gave it away, the two simple words difficult to say. With all that happened lately, was he going to put them aside just like that? This wasn’t where he _belonged_.

“I didn’t think so.”

“What of it then? I have nothing to confess.” He balled his fists.

“No, why would you? You’re no more beast than you are victim, I suppose you want to believe,” he reassured. “But do be mindful of where you place your trust in, doctor. You never know who could be sneaking in at night.” From the smoke, Jonathan saw a hint of a smirk. “Nor who could be eavesdropping.” With an outstretched arm came a gurgling cry from outside.

“Stop that! What are you doing!?” Jonathan spun around to open the door. Someone writhed on the floor, face red, and pulse absent. “Matthias! Hold on!” He turned, finding the room empty again.

Matthias breathed greedily, unable to stand and hacking up blood. “Bloo _—_ ” he began, before falling into another fit.

Jonathan pulled him up and set him on the bed, kicking aside the clutter that was in the way. “Slow breaths.” Matthias complied, albeit with pain. His eyes were wide, but breathing no longer as labored.

“I think I’m fine,” he said. “That leech… I heard you talking from the other room. The walls are thinner than they look. Came to see who it was.”

“Right. This isn’t the only—” He caught himself before revealing too much. “How did he get in?”

Matthias shook his head. “The fences are high and have stations every other section. Could’ve jumped over with most men on patrol or off drunk. But how he managed through your door... We’re gonna have to take a see at that later.”

Jonathan studied him, learning that he could activate his _vampiric_ senses at will. Nothing seemed wrong, as if the intruder merely froze his heart for a few seconds. “Your vitals seem normal right now. I should get the others, tell them what happened. Will you be fine here?”

“Aye, go,” he agreed. “They’re at the grand chamber.”

The hallway lights were dimmed, and Jonathan wondered if the _leech_ could still be around, lurking, somewhere. He freed his mind from the thoughts, assuring himself that if the man had any wicked intentions, he would have done something by then. There wasn’t any evident hostility in his words anyway, maybe foreboding, but nothing else. The large doors were familiar to Jonathan, though he’d only seen them once. Perhaps it was the griffins emblazoned into the frame, or the intricacy of its door handles. The care in designing the place was unforgettable.

He eased his way in, regarding the men inside curtly. “Captains, Sergeants, _McCullum_ ,” he said, getting a grunt from the man.

“What is it? We’re in the middle of a discussion,” asked one of them. There were seven in the room, though Jonathan only really recognized three.

“Pardon me. Someone’s breached the walls while I was gone, wanting to talk when I returned,” he said. “He found Matthias listening in and attacked him as a distraction before making off.”

“What!? How is he?”

“Resting. His heart stopped somehow, but it looked normal when I left.”

“Ah, typical leech powers. And what of the intruder anyway?” Casey asked, butting in.

“He didn't actually show himself to me—obscured with a thick _mist,_ I think. But I felt his presence in the room, and it was gone when I turned around to check on Matthias.” The men straightened in posture. “He could still be here. I'm not confident in that regard.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes, but nodded anyway. “Right. Thank you. We’ll see what we can do.” He turned to face the others. “Give Matthias our regards if you’re heading back.”

“I have a request,” Jonathan began again. “I want to make a visit to Pembroke hospital.” It sounded ridiculous even in his own ears.

There was a hushed silence, everyone staring baffled at the vampire. The leader of Priwen put everyone else’s thoughts to words. “You realize how awful your _request_ is,” he stated slowly. “This is too much.” He exhaled in exasperation, kicking back from the table and sliding to the wall on the wheels of his office chair.

“Dr. Swansea. He asked to meet me.”

Geoffrey stood up and closed the gap between them. Some others leaned in, while others propped their elbows on the large table. “In person?” He scratched at his stubble with a thumb.

 _Should he reveal Lady Ashbury? Maybe not_. “I ran into someone a few nights ago, a messenger, when I escaped. Said that Dr. Swansea would like to meet me at a later time,” Jonathan lied, but stood firmly even under Geoffrey’s glare. “You could dispatch a unit to monitor me.”

“Who? Tell us more about them.”

“Nothing much to tell about. Hidden behind dark clothing. And as I recall, I was trying not to be found," he replied snarkily.

“We’ll talk about your proposal later then. Have more important matters to discuss,” Geoffrey said. “Seen Randall around?”

“At the pub, yes. He invited me, but I didn’t stay long.”

Geoffrey grunted in acknowledgement, and the men returned to their original positions to resume the conference. Jonathan walked back to his room. The first lights of dawn peeked through the gaps in the window barricades, and streetlights conversely were turned off one-by-one. In the quiet hours of day, he could almost imagine there wasn’t actually a pandemic threatening the lives of half of London. No doubt, Pembroke would be loaded with patients all-around. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was even susceptible to disease, considering how drastically his physiology was changed.

Jonathan made his way through the hall, and opened his door to find Matthias gone. “Oh no.” Straining his senses once more, he looked around, relaxing when he noticed the young man to be in the other room.

He knocked, received a ‘come in’, and opened the door. “I was worried you had gone missing, as soon as I left.”

“Ah? It was good of you to let me rest on your bed for a while, yeah, but I can walk,” Matthias said. “It’s just next door anyway.”

The vampire nodded in agreement, hands in his pockets and eyes closed.

“Something wrong?”

“No, not really. Hmm,” he mumbled. “Maybe too much is happening. I don’t want to live the rest of my life in fear of myself, and of others.”

Matthias hummed. “Well, you’re doing okay.” Then he grinned. “Honestly, you’re a good point of research, in more ways than your _tenacity_ and—” He sat up, noticing something. “The mirror.”

“What’s the matter?” Jonathan inspected himself. Strands of hair hung lose on the sides, and his cheeks looked hollow. The bags under his eyes were somehow even larger, and he honestly did look the part of a corpse. “It’s rude to comment on one’s appearance.” Veins pushed up at his skin in places they normally wouldn’t have been. _Was he losing weight? Or was it another side-effect?_

“No! It’s just... What?” The man made his way to the mirror, ghosting a hand over, then quickly rubbing it. “Why are you here?”

“I’m checking on you to make sure you hadn’t had _another_ cardiac arrest, or been kidnapped, or died.”

Matthias frowned. “You’re not slow, Reid.”

“I know,” he chortled, smiling wide. “I noticed it as you did, and earlier in the other room with our intruder. It’s odd... According to the myths and vampire fiction, we’re not typically able to use mirrors, right?”

“Yes, but that’s not the whole story. There’d been a theory made, and it worked when I tried it.” He didn’t take his eyes off the mirror, though did move back. “It’s the manufacturing process... or the backing of the objects—that’s what makes them reflective, as otherwise they’re just glass.”

Jonathan sat down on a chair and listened.

“I tested two types of mirrors, one with silver, and the other with aluminum. Remember the dead body in your cell? I asked her—well, before she killed herself—to stand in front of the two surfaces, and she was invisible on silver, but looked normal in the other!” He wiped the back of a hand on his forehead. “This better not be a fever dream.”

The concept didn’t seem as absurd as the other made it out to be, but then again, he wasn’t a researcher on the field, nor had whatever _specialized_ profession they had. For all he knew, it could have been more incredulous than flying cattle. He instead, smiled to humor Matthias’ growing enthusiasm.

“Hmm.” Matthias walked to the corner of the room and perused some items. He opened a bag, then a drawer, before finally finding a red handbook. “It was Geoffrey’s request actually, traditions. That every mirror we use here be made with silver as the main component. It was the element of… what was it?”

“The element of purity? Some call it that...” Jonathan shrugged.

“Yes, that’s it. This obviously means _something_.” He began flipping through the pages, writing down notes and inspecting the mirror once more. “It’s a start. Not sure how much this’ll help for anything, but more knowledge wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Why silver though? For sure it has notable characteristics, exceptional thermal and electrical conductivity... but it isn’t unique in any way I can think of—at least for this circumstance.”

“I don’t know either. Maybe I’ll have a look at some older documents. Tomorrow, that is. I’m a bit tired now.”

“Ah, well goodnight then.” Jonathan left the room and returned to his own. _Walking in the sun, having a reflection?_ If Priwen had so little to go on about his peculiar nature, then how would _he_?

He kicked off his shoes and undressed to more modest wear. The bed was smaller than the previous one but did fully accommodate his size. Moonlight swam through the window, ever waning, making its way for dawn. That provoked some thought. Was he truly nocturnal? He didn’t feel any special affinity to the night, but perhaps it wasn’t apparent yet. _Maybe the changes took time to develop..._ _Did that make any sense? Nevermind._ Eventually the distant sounds of the tavern’s squabbles died out. He dozed off, though it wasn’t any less dark when he awoke again.

The door handle turned slowly, but the movement was enough to jolt Jonathan awake. He sighed. The rattling of the knob was only beaten by the even noisier creaks of the door being opened. Geoffrey sidled inwards, in an obvious and failed attempt of coming in unnoticed, though he seemed oblivious to his own blunder. The hunter opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. He then reached for his belt and unholstered a gun, with a deviousness plastered to his face.

 _What?_ The man didn’t close the door, and no lights came from the hallway. Jonathan crept off the bed, and with cautious movements walked to the edge of the room. Geoffrey stilled for a moment, and he was worried the man had realized he wasn’t asleep, but the hunter didn’t react any further.

“Reid, wake up.” He didn’t reply. “Don’t make me ask a second time.” His intonations indicated some whimsy.

Jonathan was in the middle of moving closer, when a ‘bang’ echoed through the room and a bullet whizzed past his left side. He shouted, jerking away and knocking over the clothes rack.

The hunter snapped his head in Jonathan’s direction. “Why the hell were you standing over there—”

“Bloody—What in God’s name, Geoffrey!? Your methods are barbaric! I do not need a human alarm system!” he growled.

“Then don’t sleep in!”

“You’re louder than damn cooking pots falling down a flight of stairs, _without_ the guns! How could I sleep in?”

Geoffrey snorted, putting his revolver back in place. “Shut it already. It’s _been_ a whole day. Are we going to Pembroke or not?”

“A—a whole day ? How did I sleep for a...” Jonathan repeated, unbelieving. “We? You’re part of my _escort_ squad?”

“I _am_ the escort squad.”

“Great _._ ” Jonathan picked up his coat and patted it over before placing it at the foot of the bed. He straightened his clothes. “Never mentioned it, but I’m surprised Priwen found something my size so quickly.”

The hunter gawked. “Yeah well they were _mine_. Damn whoever rummaged through my pile while I was gone,” he grumbled out. “Remember? The one you bled all over and puked on? I didn’t even bother with it. Just threw them out.”

“Oh… Well, mind you half of that wasn’t my fault. Had you not shot _—”_

“You were sliding all over the fucking floor! What a shite excuse!” He placed hands on his temples and breathed deeply. “We leave in an hour. We’ll take a shorter route, but there’ll be Skals along the way.” He asked whether they were to meet at the lobby or the gates, to which Jonathan replied the latter.

Then he left without another word, but the door was loud in itself. _Really, they needed to get that worked on. They had the money to put griffins on their doors, but not adjust the door hinge._ They did not have their priorities right. Jonathan put the rest of his attire on, shoes, gloves, and coat. He avoided glancing at the mirror, and made for the door instead. An hour all to himself. _Well it’d be better spent exploring Priwen than sulking in a room._

From the door of the building’s ground floor, he gazed out. Priwen guards did about their daily tasks, eating, talking, sharpening and maintaining their gear, normal things, though the atmosphere wasn’t anything other than somber. He had a comparatively clear-cut life, knowing what he’d wanted to be since youth, and his line having the wealth to pursue it. He wondered what it was like then, to live as they did. Geoffrey told him that one time, that most of Priwen came broken and devastated. Was it that then, that pushed them to the path of vengeance?

Jonathan strolled along, taking time to stop and read posters and signs. Most were memos about vampires, how to deal with them and whatnot, plenty of them authored by a man named Ichabod Throgmorton. Once he reached the end of the path, he veered right and continued on. He’d bumped into the squad that brought in their injured mate, and they greeted him politely, though the others he crossed paths with weren’t as welcoming _._

 _Half past eight?_ He checked his pocket watch and smiled to himself—lucky guess. Maybe he did have some otherworldly bond to the night, no matter how inconsequential knowing the time might be.

With leisurely strides Jonathan reached gateway. Griffins were embedded into them, two on each side of the double gates, something he hadn’t noticed then. Geoffrey was waiting by a pillar, looking in his direction, so he sped up the pace.

“I was afraid I’d make you wait. Am I wrong for assuming you were the same?” Jonathan asked.

“Wrong. Came early so I could speak with Matt before we left. He had something yesterday, but we were busy. Do you have the time?”

“Quarter to nine.”

A few men walked past and saluted Geoffrey. It was five past nine when Matthias finally arrived. He apologized, and the two men engaged in a short discussion regarding yesterday, as well as their findings. After that, the man was off to the archives again for more research.

The pair then made off to Pembroke hospital. They took routes through alleys and other minor paths that Jonathan had believed to be dead ends, until they were again on the roads. He’d made an attempt to memorize the way, at least familiarize himself with the area, but was mostly unsuccessful. There were no landmarks, and after a few minutes they’d gone through so many turns he wasn’t even sure of their original direction. Bumps and rattles would interrupt the silence every now and then, and Geoffrey noted to have seen something in the shadows—which Jonathan agreed to—but the walk was otherwise uneventful, save a few Skals that passed them by.

They emerged into a wider road, and the hospital finally came into view. It was a large, brick building, brightly lit like a beacon compared to its surroundings, which were either abandoned, or perhaps asleep.

People in medical uniforms moved to and fro, haggard looking, yet meticulously checking with their patients. He assumed they were out of room as tents were set up outside. But even so, the yard was already close to being filled. A sad sight, but there was not much else to be done.

Jonathan steadied himself, senses flaring up from the hospital’s inhabitants.

Geoffrey idly feeled for his gun, and put his other hand over the vampire’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, Reid,” he said. “You’re here to talk to Swansea. Not a food joint. Stop ogling the people like you’re reading a menu.”

Jonathan closed his eyes, tucked his hands into coat pockets, and entered.

 _He was a doctor._ If there were actually a place he belonged, it was here.


	6. Ephemeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy, easy. Take it slow. The seasons do not wait for the living, but you are different, my champion. You have all the time in the world.
> 
> The finale of the second arc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long to update. Exams are really hectic and this next week will be the same. I'm not sure when the next arc will arrive, but rest assured I'm working on it. 
> 
> Also, it's a bit long and the pace is a bit too fast, a bit too slow in some parts, you might find. And that's normal. Because I thought that too xd. *facepalms* But hopefully, you'll enjoy this anyway.
> 
> [REDACTED]

“Nurse, water please?”

“A moment, Mr. Fiddick.” An elderly woman weaved through the clusters of beds, turning a corner and coming back with a paper cup for the man who coughed alarmingly loud.

The rest of the hospital lay in a similar state of constant, bleak operation, a mother tending to her son, doctors and nurses doing their rounds, delivering medicine and diagnosing. Jonathan could see, hear _ , feel,  _ their hearts beating, unimaginably precise, every pump discernible from the others, which could be convenient in the right conditions. To one side was a dark hallway, two people at a small distance from each other. The woman’s heart was slow,  _ too slow _ , perhaps. And the man’s was elevated.  _ Something was wrong _ —

Geoffrey snapped his fingers a few times, breaking Jonathan out of his stasis. “What is it?”

“Huh? I was only thinking… I can sort of feel everyone’s bodies as if they were my own, if that makes any sense. It feels bizarre, but not all that unwelcome.”

“Hmm.” They proceeded further, finding no one at the reception area. A young nurse passed by, and Geoffrey asked her for directions, saying they had an appointment with Dr. Swansea.

The woman nodded and directed them up the stairs. “He’s at the second floor, main office,” she said with haste, then continued on to deliver documents to a table. A man thanked her and she was on her way again.

“Didn’t even confirm with Swansea? We could’ve been murderers for all she knew.” 

“Maybe you.”

Geoffrey clicked his tongue, climbing the stairs and finding the door. “Still inattentive. Says a lot how they’d treat the people around here.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. With war and epidemic going on, as well as whatever else supernatural things are happening…” They stood before the chamber’s entrance. “You can’t fault them. You can tell they’re understaffed, trying to make the best of a terrible situation.” Jonathan knocked.

“Oh, one second!” a singsong voice replied. Drawers and cabinets were opened, closed, and shifted.  _ Cleaning his workspace, or hiding something?  _ After a minute or so, the movements stopped. “You can come in now.”

A man sat on a chair, Dr. Swansea as per the nameplate on his desk. Papers were stacked on each other and placed on tables to the sides of the room in an attempt to look neat. The man smiled, though tension was evident in his heart rate. A wooden cross lay flat on his workspace beside a few books.

“Dr. Jonathan Reid, I presume?”

“Good evening, Dr. Swansea,” the vampire greeted. “I believe you summoned me here to discuss some matter. Geoffrey McCullum came to escort me, so worry not about your safety.”

“Ah, well I suppose that helps.” The man locked eyes with the hunter’s. “Yes, an unexpected visitor but not unwanted.” He chuckled. “How have you been, McCullum?”

The man walked to a corner then leaned on the wall, proceeding to eye the two doctors warily.

“Right. How about you then Dr. Reid?”

“Please, call me Jonathan. May I take a seat?” He received a nod, and took a seat on one of the green, velvety chairs. “About my immediate arrival in London… it wasn’t all too pleasant. But I do think I’m in a better position now considerably.”

“I must imagine it’d been hard on you. And ironic, truly! A blood transfusion specialist and now a vampire?” he said, and Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “What an intriguing outcome. I do wonder what you’d be capable o—”

“Dr. Swansea, that is hardly the way to talk about my condition… it is not something to be intrigued about. The whole ordeal has caused more trouble than I would’ve expected coming back!”

The older man dropped the pencil he was holding, startled by Jonathan’s sudden outburst. As if he forgot he was talking to a  _ newborn _ , temperamental vampire that could rip his throat out in seconds. “Hmm, I apologize. It was insensitive, considering what you’d been through.” He looked down. “But you can’t say you’re not curious,” he continued. “As men of science. The chance to explore something out of the mundane existence of the mortal world…” With a deep inhale, he looked up. “You’re a brilliant mind, Jonathan.”

“You’re too kind,” he said, and Geoffrey twitched his head back at the door for a second, taking both men’s attention for a second. “The topic’s a bit maddening, but I understand where you’re coming from.”

Dr. Swansea cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “So the reason I called you here,” he said. “As you may know, the Spanish flu is still wreaking havoc, as well as the Skal epidemic. London’s never faced a deal of calamity quite so severe.”

“Skal epidemic?”

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed—ah well, I guess you’ve not had much time recently. You’re familiar with Skals, I’m sure,” he began. “But it’s been strange. There are too many, and they behave  _ differently _ .”

“He’s not wrong,” Geoffrey muttered. “It’s a damn problem, and only seems to be getting worse.”

“Anyway, Pembroke would benefit greatly from more help, especially from such an inspiring physician such as yourself. You’ll also have a space to perform your research,” he said. “Oh, and Edgar is fine.”

Jonathan frowned, glancing out of the single grand window built by the back of the room, behind Edgar. The moon was nowhere to be seen,  _ a cloudy night _ , if his instincts were to be trusted.

_ Was there nothing more he wanted, than to re-immerse himself back into the medical community? No. But it wasn’t the right thing either.  _ Would he be willing to endanger the lives of hundreds of people, for his own desires?

“That’s a tempting offer, Edgar, and I really want to,” he said. “But I don’t think I can. I don’t want to take that risk, not yet.” It had been on his mind for a long time. _ Would he ever get another chance? From someone who so quickly accepted his nature as a leech? _

“But… but—”

“Let it go, Swansea. Reid’s made up his mind.” The hunter moved to the door and placed a hand on the knob. “Are we done here then?”

He couldn’t throw this away, _the one thread to his past life_. “No, wait. Maybe we _can_ still work together, somehow, devise a way to relay our findings to each other,” Jonathan offered, and Edgar perked up from the suggestion. “I’ll be outside, have the opportunity to observe from a different perspective.”

“That’s a good idea! Very good,” he said. “And perhaps Pembroke can lend some equipment for you to work with, send them over to… Is it wrong to question your willingness to take residence at  _ Priwen _ ?”

Jonathan almost snorted at the thought.  _ Willing!  _ “I’m dying from your presupposition Edgar! Literally, and figuratively.” He gave a mock smile. “I am not the happy prisoner you may think I am. One day perhaps, but for now whether I like it or not, I do live there.”

Edgar laughed thinly, but with contempt of course, for it was obvious that the hunter  _ did  _ affect Jonathan’s decision to reject the offer, and yet the whole situation was humorous anyway. They shared some brief moments of discussion, on recent medical breakthroughs, newspaper articles—which Jonathan had relatively no idea of considering his isolation, so Edgar had to fill him in—and such.

Geoffrey tapped his feet on the ground impatiently, and eventually sat down on one of the chairs. When it seemed they weren’t planning to stop any time soon, he reclined and tilted his head up, gazing directly at the fluorescent lights.  _ How long until his eyes would burn off _ , he wanted to ask the doctors. He couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off.

_ And he was right. _

Shrieks and screams echoed off the hospital’s  _ almost  _ pristine white walls. The sound of glass shattering was accompanied by a blood-curdling cry, and more window panes, perhaps, breaking. Geoffrey was fast in getting off the chair and out the room, leaving Jonathan with nothing more than a ‘move it’ shouted in his direction. Streaks and blobs of color hitched in his vision, and he cursed for it.

Geoffrey vaulted over the railing, landing lithely on his feet and running towards the commotion. “What’s going on!?” None of the staff seemed sure either, wide-eyed and standing a distance from the bloody hallway. “Shit.”

They didn’t back up, so Geoffrey resorted to roughly shoving them aside. Jonathan trailed behind him, apologizing for the unruly behavior the man exhibited. But their eyes were glued onto the scene, and paid no heed to them.

“There’s no one in the room,” Jonathan said. “Earlier. There were two people— a… man and a woman. One’s heartbeat was slow, and the other one’s spiking.”

“What!? And you didn’t say anything earlier!”

“Because I’m a—” He scrunched his face, gesturing with his hands. “You know,” he whispered loud enough for the man to hear, and then some, to express his distaste. “It wouldn’t have made my situation look any better. You’re the one who told me to mind my own business!”

Geoffrey seethed, face-palming. He kicked the door open, eyes roving determinedly. Blood,  _ fresh blood _ , coated the walls closest to the window, which did in fact shatter, its shards lain strewn across the bed and floor. More of the red liquid trailed out into the yard and thinned into the distance.

Edgar made his way down and followed them into the room, clearly alarmed from the sight and breathing quickly. “Our two patients! Harriet Jones and Sean Hampton.” Even the other patients began to stir, woken and riveted to the mystery. Edgar waved a hand off and told the nurses to keep them in check. “Mr. Hampton had been attacked by a Skal,” he whispered.

“Out with it Swansea,” Geoffrey pressured.

“An accomplice of mine found him at the docks, brought him here, just a few nights ago. I’m uncertain as to the extent of the quarrel.” Edgar linked his hands together, and mumbled on. “Could he have been infected? He had shown no symptoms on the way here, but we kept him from the other patients regardless.”

“So you left him with a frail woman? What were you thinking, Edgar?” Jonathan asked.

“I had my reasons. Ms. Harriet’s a downright chore to deal with, you know? Call me unprofessional if you’d like, but I thought Mr. Hampton—bless the man—could help her,” he explained. “A saint, he was. Always preaching the words of God. And even if he couldn’t get through, at least he’d be willing to listen to her endless ramblings!”

“Right before he feasted on her!” Geoffrey spat out. “We’re done here! Mark my words Swansea, you’re  _ innocent _ , by the laws of this land, but in due time you’ll get what’s coming to you, by your damn unethical—”

“—Unethical!” he said disbelievingly. “You hunt and kill, out from the jurisdiction of said law. Can you say you’re any better yourself?”

“Tch.” The hunter kicked aside the glass on the window ledge and climbed over it. “Let’s go Reid.” As expected, the blood tracks stopped, rather abruptly. They had no way to find out where the Skal had run off to. 

They entered the main road, and Geoffrey kicked over a bin in anger. “We’re heading back to Priwen. Got what you wanted to hear?” he asked, voice hard.

“Yes, and no,” Jonathan said, stopping to collect his thoughts. A rat scurried by and he grabbed it, holding it as he spoke. “I’d like to make a visit to my mother and sister. In the West End.”

“Yeah you know what? We already wasted enough time. Lead on.” He crossed his arms and waited.

The furry creature protested, trying and failing to scratch and nibble at his hand. Jonathan bit into it, unexpectedly tearing its head clean off. He gurgled for a bit, shocked and uncertain, then proceeded to gulp the blood down.

Geoffrey watched with sick interest, and when the vampire finished feeding, cocked his head unassumingly.

“I’m past the phase of embarrassment, McCullum. Glaring daggers at me won’t make me feel any worse than I already do.” Jonathan traced his tongue along a blood-stained palm, revelling in its almost  _ taboo  _ taste but odd aftertaste. Few things could outdo the satisfaction that came with the crimson liquid, even just from rats. He could imagine why then Priwen hunted his kind—addiction to it would inevitably lead to  _ disaster _ .

They moved again, the transition from Pembroke to Whitechapel, then West End evident. The hospital’s area was centrally architectured, bridges and roads open to it, but not necessarily around. Apartments, gates, and other tall structures were abundantly interspersed along the lots. Whitechapel was much more cluttered. Droves of dusty and begrimed shelters clustered around small plazas, and even until now Jonathan believed he would get lost in them too easily.

The wind picked up, a mellow current wafting rotten air into their nostrils. Two Skals feasted a few ways from them, sounds revolting, forms hunched, and claws digging into their fallen ilk ravenously.  _ Something to take his mind off things. _

“Know how to use a short blade?” Geoffrey held up his weapon, sharp end angled to the side, and Jonathan accepted it.

“Yes,” he said, swinging  _ artlessly  _ into the air with the most stoic look one could imagine from an amateur unbeknownst to his own sloppiness.

“And with a few thrusts, you’ll make a fine pin cushion of yourself yet,” Geoffrey deadpanned. “Stop putting so much effort on being precise here, you know? You look like you’re swatting a fly. Use your sodding arm unless you want to break your wrists.” And when it looked  _ remotely  _ less likely that the vampire would end up injuring himself—or anyone else around him for that matter—the hunter gave a bland ‘eh’, and dropped the lesson. “Good enough.”

Jonathan rushed blindly, lack of grace somewhat mitigated by his ability to disappear into the mists. He swung at an arc to sever the Skal’s lower limbs, but miscalculated both his angle and power, almost cleaving its torso off.

The Skal struggled to detach its hipbone from the metal piece, while the other one took its chance to attack Jonathan, who barely dodged its swing, earning a nasty cut on his forearm. A bolt landed on the trapped Skal’s chest, and another in its head. It collapsed. Jonathan slid the blade out in time to block another set of claws.

The remaining Skal cried out, and he backed up. It grabbed at his blade ferally, blood spurting onto it and into Jonathan’s face, as Geoffrey loaded another bolt.

“Get out of the way!” the hunter yelled to him, but he was too distracted. Jonathan’s eyes were closed, and he growled darkly. Blood dribbled from his forehead all the way down to his chin, and painted his brown coat macabre.  _ Firing without hitting the man would be difficult. _

Instinctively, Jonathan lifted an arm forward, leaving the blade in the Skal’s arms. The air became familiarly thick, red easing in his vision even through closed eyes. He licked his fangs, pressed uncomfortably against the bottom of his mouth.

A streak of shadow—no, blood—drove cleanly into the Skal’s chest, and through its heart. It stumbled back, hands shaking in an attempt to hold itself, but they were stuck onto the blade. It flailed, releasing sounds of agony. Jonathan watched it bleed out, gripped its neck, pulling it down to near detachment, then clenched his teeth around it, viscous fluid swimming in his mouth and staining them an even further dark.

Geoffrey lowered his gun reluctantly and met Jonathan’s gaze, whose eyes were glassy and unfocused. The vampire was flushed, and he closed his eyes, before opening them again and sighing.

Jonathan looked down at his garments, face turning sour. “On a scale of one to ten—”

“Eleven. Absolutely bloody. I’d applaud for the show you put up, if it were any more entertaining and less atrocious,” Geoffrey said. “And if we weren’t on a  _ schedule. _ ”

Visibly upset but not wanting to fuss over it, Jonathan figured he’d get them washed, or just get a new set of clothes later on.

⁂

_Half past six._ The travel didn’t take too long, and if not for the Skals, they would have made it in under twenty five minutes. Jonathan took a glance towards the photo, then slipped the watch into his back pocket. _West End, home, at last._ Though he hadn’t been in the district for well over two years, and too many things for his liking had changed since then, it still felt welcoming.

He couldn’t help the delight that crept onto him. “We’re almost to the manor. I take it we might stay a bit. I’ll ask Avery to prepare some tea, if you’d like.”

“Yeah.”

Jonathan licked his lips. He’d cleaned it over and over, to experience the taste again or to look more presentable, he wasn’t really sure, but did it again anyway. Any remnants of the blood on his outfit had dried and crusted, tainting him with a metallic, earthy smell. The two men walked in silence until they reached the entrance. Jonathan knocked three times, and the locks were undone, a short elderly man peeping through and smiling warmly.

“Jonathan! Welcome home. Your mother’s asleep, hadn’t rested well since you’d gone missing.” He opened the door wide, ushering the men inside. “I see you brought a friend.” He regarded Geoffrey with a short bow. “Please, come in. I’ll prepare some tea.”

“Just for the gentleman, Avery. I’m not quite feeling for it right now.” Jonathan wiped his boots on the welcome rug and Geoffrey did the same. “Do you mind if I get this washed?”

Avery looked once, then frowned wistfully. “Just like old times, when you were still a medical student, hmm? I’ll see what I can do. Just leave it at the wash.”

Jonathan thanked him, and Geoffrey took a seat at a couch. Footsteps sounded from the second storey, hurrying and then slowing by the stairs. A young woman wearing a pleasant evening gown made her way down, seeing the two men and raising her hands to her mouth.

“Jonathan! I—you—it’s been over a week!” she struggled to say, walking to face her brother and hold his cheeks. “You’re finally home!” Her perfume was mild,  _ delicate and beautifully fitting. _

“I’m sorry. Shall we take this upstairs? I need to get out of these—” He gestured to his ruined clothes. “—Not exactly the best for a family gathering.” He grinned.

She backed up to allow him space, regarding the other man with a short greeting. “Okay then. I’ll be waiting in my room. Do tell me more about what happened,” she said, and he nodded, before disappearing upwards.

_ Too trusting for her own good. Should he keep an eye on them? _

“Sir?” The butler called out, interrupting the man’s train of thought. “Would you like Earl Grey, Jasmine, or Camomile?”

_ What the hell are those _ , Geoffrey thought to himself. He wasn’t exactly a well-bred Englishman, but not knowing the difference in tea was a tad embarrassing, so he resorted to the only thing he could do.

“What the  _ hell  _ are those?”

⁂

_ Childhood trophies, some knick-knacks on the shelves _ . The bed was bare, and the windows closed. The years had not been kind to the room’s floor, littered with scratches and stains that even his large monochrome carpet didn’t hide. But it was  _ his _ . And for once, everything seemed alright.

A finger traced along the wood and glass cabinet, coming away clean.  _ Avery had maintained his room throughout the long time he’d been gone _ . There stood several of similar sizes, shapes, and design even, but this one was special. It held in it only a few things, dear to him anyway, among those an album he kept all the notes, drawings, and prints of his father in.

He’d considered throwing it away before, and at one point actually had, until Avery found it and returned it to him.

_ Jonathan, memories don’t last, and neither do the wounds they leave.  _ “In the end you’ll have the one, or have neither. There’s a reason for everything,” he repeated to himself, as he had on many occasions before.

And so he had taken it back, placed it where he’d be reminded forever, of what it truly meant to lose.

_ To remember, to forget. _

With that, Jonathan exited into the hallway, knocking then opening his sister’s door gently. “Mary?”

She was sat on her bed, the curtains of the veranda dancing in the open breeze. “My, my, Jonny! Why the formal attire?” Mary said, moving sidewards and gesturing a spot on the bed for Jonathan. “You’re dashing, yes, no need to show it off. You didn’t want to wear something more comfortable?”

“Well, I was afraid I wouldn’t be staying long.”

“You’re leaving, again? When… when will you return?”

“I don’t know. I do plan to, but we’ll see,” he said.

“Is this about that Guard of Priwen again? What do they want?”

Jonathan nodded. “They aren’t too trusting of what I’ve become, meaning to keep me close enough for monitoring.” He locked his hands with hers, and she pulled away.

“Wait. Let’s talk about this, please!” she begged. “Don’t we have a say in this?”

“I’d made up my mind. This may be safer.”

When Jonathan looked down, unable to face her, she let her heart out. “You’re always up and about! Going wherever and whenever. Calling them  _ professional  _ excursions. I don’t want to blame you… not this time.”

“It’s hard on me too, Mary! I was invited to work at Pembroke hospital, and I had to decline.”

“But it’s _not_ always about you!” She huffed, then raised her voice. “Mother is _terminal_ , we don’t know how much longer she’ll have. She needs you. _I_ _need you_.”

Jonathan raised a hand up to her shoulder and she hesitated away, but let him hold her in the end. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not a patient, Dr. ‘Do-all’. You’re not explaining a disease to me. Be blunt. Be open,  _ something _ . Just stop acting like  _ that _ , like you don’t even care. Can’t we please talk? Negotiate?” She paused. “You don’t know—you’ve been gone.”

“What?”

“That my family is _dead,_ Jonathan, all I had! My husband was killed in the war! And I lost my son to the flu!” she cried out. “I don’t have much left.”

Jonathan stared in shock, troubled. _What was he to do?_ _Tell her everything? How his life was on a balance, precariously hanging onto a single string?_ “I didn’t want this. All of you, telling me to be something I can’t be. I am not a human, Mary. I don’t belong here.” He gestured around them. “I’m not even sure I even belong in this world anymore.”

“No, no, no… you can’t leave me too! We need to find a way. Like when we were kids.”

“We aren’t… we can’t fix everything.”

“We used to always—before  _ you _ stopped trying!” She sobbed bitterly. “You can’t… do this Jonny.” Her tears fell freely, down her cheeks, and dampening her gray dress.

He held her tightly in his arms and cradled her head. She beat her fists against his back weakly, before finally breaking into inconsolable crying. “I’m so sorry. It was like this, right? Where it all started,” he murmured. “I can’t change who I’ve become. But this is the right choice. It  _ has  _ to be.”

“I’ve no one else—” She lost her voice, head sagging limp on his shoulder.

“I love you. And I will be back…” Jonathan settled her into a deeper embrace, the lilac scent she always wore enveloping them. He cried too, though she wouldn’t know. She was deep in her own sorrow.

⁂

_ Tap. Tap. Tap.  _ His feet were antsy, and rightfully bored otherwise. Geoffrey took a sip of tea, sitting alone at the dining table. He couldn’t say it was bad, just not distinguishable from any others he’d had.  _ Weren’t they all just leaf water? _

The manor was nice, not over-the-top at least. Framed paintings of various landscapes adorned the walls, and elegant woodworks furnished the rest. He took another sip, laying one down, feeling the table’s engravings under the ridges of his palm.

He imagined the doctor would have something clever to say about the tea.  _ No, it is not presumptuous tea water. The preparation of each leaf is of utmost importance, Geoffrey, the fibers and essence of every tea unique and wholly harmonious, yet also _ —

And then he’d would interrupt, _ you’re just a blood drinker. What would you know anyway?  _ That would shut him up.

Obviously an exaggeration of sorts, but Reid wasn’t actually as uptight, pretentious, as most citizens from the West End. No, just inherently  _ pragmatic _ . Avery took the seat across, holding another of the drink.

A horribly copied parody of Jonathan’s voice echoed in his head. _ Each tea, Geoffrey, is unique,  _ he thought once more, unsure why he made jest of the leech.  _ One must extract the essences of the leaves with providence and care _ —

— _ Like a vampire draining blood! _

_ The things boredom did to a man.  _ He sighed.  _ Was he losing it? _ This wasn’t the time for petty entertainment, and there probably wouldn’t ever be. Jonathan was aberrant, but they always ended up the same.  _ Bloodthirsty menaces and cowards. _

“You look troubled. Also a bit amused, I might say.” Avery looked him in the eyes, and he returned the stare.

“Yeah? What of it?” He had shed his scarf, the night a bit too warm. They were silent for quite a while. Geoffrey decided to break it. “How long had Reid been away?”

“Jonathan? Oh, around three years, but went off quite often. He’d been busy, supposedly, and we hadn’t heard much since he’d last left,” he said. “But it wasn’t really his fault, what with the war and all.

_ That’s a long time.  _ “Is that it then? You’re all just fine and dandy with this, with what happened? Do you know what he really is now? Do you not worry for your lives?”

_ And he had ridiculed the leech asking too many questions back then. This was more important,  _ he assured himself, but mentally flicked his forehead anyway.

The butler chuckled lightly. “I know better than to jump to conclusions, sir.”

“He  _ died,  _ you know? And he’s here now. Doesn’t strike up anything to you?”

Avery closed his eyes, enjoying the tea’s scent, and drinking. “The obituary, yes. It was heartbreaking. At my age, I’m lucky to be alive, and that happening to Jonathan...“ He paused. “I was more glad to see him back than worried of the consequences. Mary hadn’t mentioned it, but… yes, I knew.”

The shouting from earlier had died down, replaced with a quiet weeping. Geoffrey shifted in his seat. “So what do you plan on doing?”

“After this? Mop the floor, wash the cups.” When Geoffrey scowled at him, he laughed. “McCullum, right?” The man nodded. “I have faith in Jonathan. He was always bright lad you know? And he does want to do the right things. If he’s cold or distant, well, he’s probably thinking.”

“On what the right thing to do is.” Geoffrey said flatly.

“Yes.”

“I’m not one to meddle with others’ affairs.”  _ Speak of the devil and he doth appear.  _ Jonathan lingered at the top of the stairs for a while, then began downwards, apparently having taken several of his belongings with him in a leather bag.

Avery turned his head to address Jonathan, setting the glass back down. “Your father’s?” And he nodded. “Ah yes, I do remember he left some of his old items and other _ things  _ back at his study… You’re off then?”

“I suppose, but I’ll try to come again, in the near future.”

“Do visit more often. I think Madame Reid would enjoy your company,” he said. “She gets lonely. Talks to herself sometimes, and Aubrey…”

“I’ll do my best, Avery.” The doctor put on a coat by the door and stepped into a different set of boots. “Thank you, for everything.”

Geoffrey downed his tea and stood up to stretch, replacing his scarf. They then exited the manor and began to walk back to Priwen headquarters. “Aubrey Reid?”

“Yes.”

“The banker?”

Jonathan nodded. “He left us a long, long time ago. But I found this letter, addressed to me, and signed by him. It reads another puzzle, like he used to give me and my sister.” Two young women on the streets, suffragettes most likely, were handing out flyers and pins. “And I think I’ll finally know the reason why, after I solve this. Though perhaps at another time.”

On the way, they came across a patrol. The men eagerly reported the amount of Skals they had rid of— _ seventeen _ —and decided to walk back together, as their shift was over and it seemed a good opportunity to get to talk with their leader more.

One spoke of their fellow mate who had supposedly fallen into the river. He did not know how to swim. “We were right panicking sir! Jerry’s not a good swimmer, and he’d gone over the harbor railing—wasn’t paying attention, like a goddamn chimpanzee eyeing something to steal—”

“—They don’t do that!” one protested. “And I fell in for a good reason, you know! Thought I saw a…  _ leech _ . In the water. Yeah.”

“Jerry, shut your trap and let me finish. You would’ve drowned had we not saved your sorry arse,” the other man ridiculed, and stuck out a tongue as Jerry snorted in disgust, turning away to hide his shame. “As I was saying, he was screaming all sorts of vulgarities.” The rest of the patrol guffawed, bar the one being made fun of.

Jonathan then realized, that they were all soaking wet.

Another man began to talk. “Before I knew it—I was thinking a plan up, of course—everyone had already jumped in! All of them, each and every one.” He made a face of both displeasure and amusement, apparently having been the only one who  _ hadn’t  _ jumped in the river with them. “Pulled him out like a dog. Absolutely hilarious, sir! Wish you’d seen it.”

The conviviality was infectious _ ,  _ and Jonathan struggled not to laugh as well. His lips turned up into a smile, then dropped again.

_ Someone was here. _

_ Buildings, just buildings and the people sleeping in them, and streetlights.  _ No one else noticed, still up in their merrymaking _.  _ And he wouldn’t have noticed either. He couldn’t see anything unusual.  _ Nothing.  _ But there was that feeling of tension, the constriction of air, thickening of it. The one that accompanied a vampire’s presence, stronger however, more potent.

He stopped moving. The sky turned vicious red, like when he’d lost control, or when he’d been newly reborn. But the gnawing hunger did not come with it this time. His mind was clear, unsure and perhaps choleric, but clear nonetheless.

_ Remorse and pain are precious when binding you to the Earth.  _ The voice was recognizable, sullenly so.

_ A man, a spirit? A friend, an enemy?  _ He didn’t know what manifested, nor when, but there it stood in front of him, a figure of blood.

_ Fear be gone. I would harm no childe of my making. _

_ “Child…?  _ You! This is your doing! You made me  _ this creature! _ ” Jonathan spat out. “What do you want from me?”

_ Correct, my childe. I am the land, and you, our champion.  _ The figure wasn’t making sense, and he was growing irate.  _ It is a sickly age, brewed in a cauldron newly forged. Of rage, and ancient poison. _

“Cease with your riddles. Does this have something to do with the epidemic?”

_ Indeed. Do not lose faith as have many that came before you. Defeat the serpent of knowing, with iron spur. _

Jonathan calmed down. There would be no use in aggravating himself nor his maker. “You made me an Ekon, then? That’s what I am,” he said. “Calling me your champion, the one who must stop the epidemic, such a horrible pretense for your twisted  _ game,  _ is it not?”

If it were possible, and it apparently was, the figure of blood laughed, its horns stretched like a tree’s branches. _ You are more than an Ekon. Blood of my blood, and of ties to Priwen? Enthralling. _

The streets turned gloomy dark, and the figure dissipated. “Something wrong with the leech? Not right in the head? A shame, such a shame,” the dry one joked. “To think the only one we’re supposed to work with is all wonky.” Everyone stopped to watch Jonathan talk to  _ himself,  _ or so they thought.  _ None of that was real, or metaphysical at least. _

“Right on,” another agreed. “Sir?” Geoffrey hadn’t moved an inch, eyes glued onto the doctor.

“Hmm?” the leader twitched his head, alarming the others. “Nothing. Go on ahead.”

Some shrugged, while the others shared confused glances, but proceeded anyway. Jonathan went on to follow when Geoffrey pulled him back.

“What was that?”

“What was what? We’re being left behind,” Jonathan said.

The man slit his eyes, threatening to bore holes in Jonathan’s, who gulped, though it didn’t do much for his dry throat. “Someone was there. You’re a crap liar, and not psychotic. Don’t play dumb.”

_ He knew? _ Jonathan pulled on the hem of his own coat. “I didn’t say anything.” Geoffrey only continued to stare, and the men were far ahead by then.  _ Was he trying to get them alone? _ That didn’t seem like a safe idea. “A figure of blood spoke to me.”

“Okay.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Nothing much,” he said simply. “Just wanted to be sure. Who were they? I didn’t see, but I felt something… in my blood—around us.”

Jonathan stayed eerily quiet, so Geoffrey spoke again. “What I mean is, I don’t have a clue what happened. And I’m not expecting you to know any better.”

“Alright.”

“But something’s wrong. Just throwing that out there,” he said. “The whole night feels all awry.”

Now that he mentioned it, there  _ was  _ a feeling of unease lurking around, some foreboding, and anxiety.

_ Did a shadow move just there?  _ Jonathan wanted to say no, but in the current unhallowedness of London, the likeliness of that being a street animal were slim, and was far too big to be simple rats.

Geoffrey urged him to pick up the pace.

⁂

Twigs snapped under their feet, setting the men on edge. The rest of the squad had realized as well, that they were being  _ watched _ , and nothing could help the already dour mood. They were half aways from Priwen headquarters.  _ Not close enough. _

Jonathan was the first to see them—two sets of eyes and then another, in the distance somewhere on the rooftops, and gleaming venomously. The men prepared their weapons, loaded their guns and chambers. The two were by the center of the formation with decent vantage points. One of the scouts by the front shouted, and cocked a gun forward.

Mists blurred the path in front of them, and in seconds were replaced by equally chilling shapes. Three men, one significantly more brutish and larger than the others, stood before them.

“Good evening,” the one on the left said, baring his fangs.

Without caution or forethought, the squad let loose dozens of shots, to no effect. The man simply disappeared into the side, and deflected the rest of the bullets with a dome of blood.  _ An ambush?  _ Geoffrey roared orders, moving into the flank while the others spread out.

He and two men charged, three blades flashing in the air and forcing the leech back. The biggest one, whom Jonathan assumed to not be an Ekon unlike the others, pounded his arms down, shadows surging below him and rushing around.

A guard swore, firing a shot into the brute’s chest to no effect. Hands erupted from the ground, and out climbed several forms similar to the brute’s. They in turn ran at the men, pummeling, striking, and breaking the guards’ positions as they struggled to evade.

Jonathan watched the battle, the last of the three leeches shadow-jumping in front of him, and smiling toothily.

“Dr. Reid,” the man said, nasal voice familiar. _The one at his room!_ “I’m giving you ten seconds to decide, whether you’re fighting against us, or not.”

Jonathan reached into his bag, feeling the cold metal.

“Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Eigh—” He was cut off, as Jonathan  _ cut  _ his nose off. “Insolent boar!” he cursed, clutching his face and growling. The doctor flicked his surgical knife up, trying a few thrusts into the man’s arm, though missing.

“Damn you, and your pedantic riddles!” Jonathan wasn’t one to curse, but the whole ordeal demanded this bit of obscenity. “I’ve had it up to  _ here  _ with all this!”

Geoffrey whistled loudly and yelled something out, backing up to let the two guards handle the first leech.

“Aye!” Someone at the back took out his bolt-action rifle, pointing it upwards and shooting once, reloading, then shooting another time.

Fuming with anger, the man let his hand down, revealing the bloody hole where his nose used to be. He sped towards Jonathan, clawing across his chest. The doctor stumbled back. The floor morphed around, and he got to his feet to block another strike. His head hurt, and the amount of blood  _ everywhere  _ was dulling his perception.

Jonathan punched the man in the gut and swiped with his knife, puncturing his side, and striking him again before he could recover. Jonathan grunted, attempting to pool shadows under the man and explode. And they did. Blood and innards flew into the air and landed with gross splotches.

The leech fighting the two men glanced to his fallen comrade, and leapt away.

“Cow’s arse!” Geoffrey shouted, lining up a shot. His revolver wasn’t near accurate enough at a distance however, and missed. “It’s getting away!” More shots went in its direction, but it was already gone.

For a few seconds, the two sides seemed to be evenly matched, the brute and its clones alternating strikes with the guards’. And then the hefty marching of feet clamored into the streets, Matthias at the front of a small assembly.

The remaining guards brandished their swords and rushed the last standing leech. It blocked the first few blows with its meaty arms, then traded some of its own.

“What happened, sir?” Matthias asked, panting. “Saw the signal. Gathered all the men I could find in three minutes.”

“Ambush. Those bastards from Ascalon again. Three of them. One escaped—” No it didn’t.

The leech was standing atop a building, clutching a woman’s neck in a hand. It laughed maniacally and snapped her neck. Her screams died within seconds as it drained her, tossing her body down in front of the guards. It then proceeded to jump down an alley and walk away with slow, taunting steps.

“Sir! Wait!”

Geoffrey wouldn’t hear reason.  _ Fucking monsters. Each. And. Every. One.  _ Memories of his mother flashed in his head, and he sprinted after the leech. His eyes warned to pop out of their sockets, whole body burning from rage.

One step. Two steps.  _ Too slow _ . He yelled in frustration, the leech seemingly gliding across the floor and moving much faster than he could.

It stopped, another figure approaching it.

“Lord Braum! What happened to the other—” The vampire they had been chasing, froze the other Ekon in place.

“They’re done for.” It inhaled deeply from its companion’s neck. “And I would have been too, had you not been so generous.”

Geoffrey came in time to see Lord Braum toss the dead Ekon’s body away and wipe his mouth on a handkerchief. “You betrayed one of your own!? You filth are the worst kind!” He heard steps approaching from behind. The air was becoming warmer.

“Yes,” it said bemusedly. “And you’ve betrayed  _ yours  _ with your rashness.” He launched a large spear of blood. 

Geoffrey easily dodged to the side. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, preparing to attack, but stopped,  _ meaty _ sounds coming from behind.

_ What? _

A voice screamed wetly. “Fuck! Oh God!” Geoffrey turned around to see Matthias clutching his abdomen—the lack of it. He was hyperventilating, unable to even keep his head up, and falling to the floor.

“Matt!” Geoffrey blocked a claw just in time, grinding his teeth. The leech wasn’t giving him any time nor opening. “Hang in there!” Left! Right! It was fast. He could barely keep up.

Matthias shut his eyes, and cold hands reached him. _Was he dead already?_ _The pain_ … _not yet._ Though he did wish for the finality of it. “I’m gonna die...”

The doctor couldn’t say otherwise.  _ It was over.  _ The entire area below the man’s chest was plowed through. Jonathan grimaced, and despised himself for it, to resist just  _ digging in _ .

“Reid?” he asked.

“You’re not going to make it. Even if we somehow stop the bloodloss. Too many of your vital organs were completely devastated. I can try to coagulate your blood. But I don’t know—”

“—I can’t move. I can’t see,” Matthias said suddenly.  _ He was terrified _ .  _ Was there anything on the other side?  _ “Please…” He hacked blood, lining the pavement and coating it densely. “It hurts. Please, just kill me.”

Jonathan stared emptily, then looked away.  _ He couldn’t _ . Maybe they weren’t on the best terms, but he was still the only one… the only reason  _ he  _ was alive right now. Geoffrey’s earlier fervency was running out, tired and losing ground. He stood to help him, and Matthias grabbed at his coat sleeves.

“I’m already dead.” He apologized. And all he could hear was his own heartbeat. “It’s up to you now. You can still  _ live _ .” Matthias stopped moving. Jonathan, however, could feel then, that he was still alive. Holding on by some manner of will, or what he had left of him.

“I won’t prolong your suffering.” With a reluctant sigh, he held the man up, looked him in the eyes, beady with sweat. “Thank you.” Jonathan felt his fangs push out. He didn’t resist it this time. The flavor of blood was intense, filling, and incredible, but he drank with a heavy heart.

The hunter caught a glimpse of the act, and his eyes grew dark. “Each and every one,” he whispered under his breath, managing to nick the leech’s shoulder. “You were right, Carl.”  _ Everyone dies. Memento Mori. _

His very being burned with life. Electricity danced on his fingertips, and his tongue flicked around. Jonathan darted into the fight, claws flashing to strike the leech. The blows blocked and traded were a blitz difficult for Geoffrey’s eyes to follow.

_ In my life, I’d researched a great deal of works. On medicine, for my dying mother. On how to shoot a gun, so I could assist my country in the war, something I wasn’t even able to do. On vampires, for the Brotherhood of St. Paul’s Stole, and eventually my place here in Priwen. I do not need a memorial. People die in the dozens and hundreds daily. But please, don’t let them forget me. _

Jonathan alternated between melee and range, overpowering the other and causing Lord Braum to back out of the alley. “You! You killed Matthias!”

“Factless words, for one covered in  _ his _ blood,” he replied.

“I know enough that you caused all this! How dare you shift the blame to  _ me _ !”

The leech jumped back, sneering. “Oh, but little do _you_ know,  _ vermin _ ,” he ridiculed. “I’ll be sure to remember this—don’t go off dying too soon.” And with a puff of smoke, he disappeared.

Jonathan flicked his head around, body tense and all about ready to kill the man.  _ There!  _ He shadow-jumped into the streets. There would be nowhere to hide, out in the morning sun. “You’re outnumbered—”

His skin ignited, galvanized to melt. “What!?” He froze, unsure of what was happening, then fell to his knees, unable to even open his eyes to the sun’s blinding— _ no _ !

A forearm burst open. Veins imploded and bones crackled, fracturing. Jonathan could do nothing but scream as he was  _ too slowly  _ consumed by the sweltering skies. Blotches of black and white bathed in his vision.

_ Was there really nothing waiting at the other side? _

_ Soon, he’d know too.  _ He blacked out.

⁂

Jonathan awoke, body smarting. A blanket lay askew on the floor. And the sight was all but familiar. He raced out of the bed.  _ Matthias! The fight! _

Outside the window, it was dark again. And quiet. No lights, no torches, nothing. He closed the curtains and looked around.  _ A door.  _ He stepped outside, checked the room’s number— _ it was his, 213. Not 214, where Matthias stayed _ .

Not a dream. Not a nightmare?

The knob of 214’s door was locked. He went back to his own. A lone mirror hung serenely on the wall. Jonathan walked, watching it. The room was alone.

Standing in it, holding his breath, he held an arm out.

_ Nothing. _

He bowed his head, touching the surface with his hands directly. Then he looked up.

_ Nothing. _

Jonathan was guilty, of killing a dying man, and being unable to avenge him. He pawed at the mirror, then stepped back. The empty room taunted him. With a roar, he thrust his right knuckle forward, shattering the glass.

_ He was a monster. That was right. And a monster didn’t need to see itself. _

When did he forget?

His hand bled, but the pain was naught compared to the regret. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t help but feel terrible regardless. From a distance, he heard the soft beating of hearts— _ no, just drums. _

He hadn’t died that morning. Someone carried him back, most likely. Or perhaps it was just another twisted trick of fate, the fact that he wouldn’t die. As everyone else around him would.

When the world of change and finity threatened him, there was little more to do than sorrow, and endure. And move on. For the things one lost, for what they’d never forget.

_ A life of continuity, would eventually grow stagnant.  _ Jonathan resigned to lie down at the bed, staring at the ceiling. “It’s better to lose that sense of permanence then, than myself.”

Someone knocked at the door, but he didn’t answer.


	7. Illusory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People have different ways of coping with loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the really late chapter update! Exams just finished today and I finally got to add the final scenes. Next chapter might be update a bit faster than last time (not as fast as the first three though, because those were shorter and pre-written). Also, things changed quite a bit in this chapter than what I'd expected, so that contributed to it taking a while. Anyway, I'm quite happy with how it came out.
> 
> I might change it a bit when I update again though. I have a few things in mind but I'm not sure if they'd really be necessary.  
> Also there are problems with the italics formatting (I'll deal with that tomorrow it's 10:30PM as of writing this), and maybe some errors (not sure if I forgot to finish some sentences. I'm really tired right now.)
> 
> Additional notes after uploading: Set the estimated chapter count to 15, up from 12, though it's still a bit tentative. That's where my outline's gotten me though. I'm debating on changing the timeline of the events quite a bit (might ask someone to test-read example scenes). The whole game was in the same season (not really specified, but yeah, it all took place within a month or three at most I think). I've personally never experienced an actual, complete, winter season, so I might flunk writing about one, but I'll give it a shot. We'll see. Also, thank you so much for the kind comments. My beta is very kind, and both you and him encourage me to keep working on the fic. Hopefully it won't disappoint!
> 
> This is the beginning of the third arc.

Jonathan rolled, back turned against the door. Whoever it was that wanted to come in, needed to do so badly. He tried to unfocus, unwind from the world and its troubles, if only for a while. It was a choice of juvenile consequences, yes, but he figured he’d give them a hard time, since they were doing the same to him, by all means.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to tune out the strident raps on the dividing walls.

After two minutes the knocking stopped, and he was pleased to have finally found himself in a moment of rest, laying down on his side, feeling the sweet call of respite—and then another set of feet came by, followed by _very_ loud whispering. _The knocking continued._

“I hadn’t locked the door, Cas,” someone said exasperatedly, wiggling the knob. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Well they don’t lock themselves do they?”

“You don’t know that,” he said, with an air of suspicion, and Jonathan rolled his eyes. “My granny’s place back when I was a lad, during the summers. Convinced that house was proper haunted, you know what I’m saying?”

“No, I—Just… can you just move and let me have a look see?” They shifted, with Captain Casey supposedly trying to work at the lock. Jonathan stalked to the other side. _Did they not have the keys to his room?_

“So. As I was saying, before you so rudely interrupted me,” the man said sardonically. “The doors in that place, man! Leave a room, go to the toilet or, _you know_ , and come back. And bam! It’s locked! Had to sleep on the bench that one night. The window hinges were broken—it was damn cold, so damn cold.” An audible sigh was let out by the other. “I swear on my dead granny! No lie! Hmm, well maybe it was _her_ , the ghost I mean. Locking the doors.”

The walls really _were_ thin, sounds muffled, but loud and bothersome enough. Someone banged their head on them repeatedly, and Jonathan resisted doing the same.

“Then again, she wasn’t dead yet when the doors would lock themselves…”

“Can you just sit down for a second? Preferably over there? You’re giving me a migraine.”

“Fine,” the other man said dryly. “But when _you’re_ the one locked in a room, by some demonic presence—”

“Christ, Barry! Stop it and let me work!”

Jonathan surrendered. _They weren’t going to stop until they got what they wanted_ , and it may as well be better to get whatever it was over with than prolong the inevitable. Because they were _really_ _loud._

With a single motion, he gripped the handle and twisted once, leaving it un-open but unlocked.

“Huh,” Casey remarked. “Got it— whoa!” Within seconds, the vampire had disappeared, and streaked behind the two men with a trail of smoke. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jonathan didn’t reply, glaring daggers at the men who disturbed his slumber.

“You could’ve just let us in earlier, Reid. You were awake the whole time!”

“ _You_ could have just let me rest,” he retorted. “And correction, I was asleep until you got me up with your incessant knocking.”

Casey frowned. “Well I think it was called for.” He received no reply. “Don’t we deserve an explanation? Geoffrey’s been holed up in his office all day and evening you know? Said the patrol yesterday, he carried you all the way out of the streets.”

“Is that so?” So he really _would_ have burnt to a crisp, had the hunter not saved him.

“Yeah. And like, weren’t you immune to that shite just a few days back?” Casey asked, and Jonathan shrugged. “Besides that, we thought you’d want to attend the burial. Five casualties, including Matt—such a shame.” He shook his head slowly, hands on hips. “So?”

He didn’t really have a reason not to. And he owed the dead at least that much. “Alright.” When Casey found interest in his room’s floor, Jonathan raced over and shut the door, startling the man.

“Why so _jumpy_ tonight?”

“Nothing. The room is a bit untidy is all.” It wasn’t a lie. With all the broken shards on the ground, it could hardly be called neat, or safe. And he wasn’t sure they’d tolerate the property damage anyway.

The captain didn’t push the topic further, though unease was evident in his face. He instead called Barry back, and lead them out of the archive building. It was surprisingly warm, and Jonathan didn’t know what to feel about that. _Good?_ Probably. Torches blazed in the low light, held up by dozens of guards lined up periodically. Other men walked with them in a path, eyes down and hands held behind their backs. Barry joined the line from the back, as Casey and Jonathan proceeded further ahead.

“It’s less of a burial than a commemoration, to be honest,” the heavyset captain began. “Can’t really recover much of the dead’s remains, well, and there’s not enough space for everyone.”

“I see. So what do you do here?”

Casey felt for his pocket, and fished out a thimble. “This,” he said, as if the piece of tin would explain everything. “If you had something that meant a lot to the person, or maybe something that signified your friendship, you could bring them.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “Symbolic.”

“Yeah. We just leave them sometimes. I don’t though. I like to remember them every time my hands bump into… the music box another captain gave me, a voucher that we planned on using for a night’s all drinking, but never got to use... All sorts of things that wouldn’t hold any value to anyone else. But this thimble.” He held the object up again. “It means a lot to me. I know how to sew now. Bought lots of thread and spent lots of time, and nicked myself quite a bit.”

They slowed down, taking their positions by the front of the march, along with some of the other officers. Jonathan looked around. They weren’t as gloomy as he’d expected. Some laughed, some joked. They were probably used to it, or just had gotten over their grievances already, _as if their fellow guard never died, too live on in them forever._ Geoffrey wasn’t here.

“It was worth it though. Learned a lot about myself, about Matt.” Casey greeted the others, and they greeted him back. “He wanted to become a doctor. And he would have—clever lad—but not everything works out in the end, aye?”

“I don’t have anything.”

“That’s okay. A prayer will do.” _Don’t forget him,_ he remembered the man’s dying thoughts. “Hmm, wait, are you religious?”

Jonathan cocked his head. “What? No, I’m not. I’m an atheist,” he said. “But I suppose I can still give a prayer, if I remember how.”

“He was catholic. Most of us are here, but he was _devout._ Always spoke about maze-y things... _metanoia_ , and _kenosis_ …”

“The change of heart, and the emptying of one’s soul to make space—”

“—for God’s grace! By the Lord, how did you know that anyway?” The captain asked.

Jonathan felt silly from the revelation. “My family went to this small church way back. I didn’t really enjoy it—and neither did my sister—but I guess some things stuck.”

“Matt’s probably laughing his arse off right now,” Casey barked out in humor. “Converted a leech _and_ science-y man to the _truth, hah!”_

Jonathan smiled wryly and wrung his hands together. _The truth._ He looked back at where they came from. They actually hadn’t travelled very far. And— _wait a minute_.

He _did_ have something! “Captain Casey, do you mind if we return to the archives building?”

“Why? We’re already almost at the procession.”

“I have something that I want to leave here. I just remembered. It’s likely in Matthias’ room however, and I don’t have the keys.”

“Well, the keys aren’t labelled very well anyway—courtesy of whoever used it last, probably dropped it in water and had the ink all smudged—” Casey furrowed his brows before breaking into a massive grin. “But that’s the spirit! Let’s go then!”

 

* * *

 

They arrived in five minutes, according to Jonathan’s watch, faster than when they had gone the other way, but they were only walking at a leisurely pace back then. Casey huffed a few times, climbing the stairs with enough exertion in his legs to pound a cow under them.

“So what was it—the, the thing you wanted to take?”

“A cage that he caught a few rats in before. He said it was for peace, or something about that.”

“Ah. That makes sense.” Casey stopped at the hall. “Wh—huh?” The door was already open. They crept closer, as quietly as they could, under the sounds of distant drumming.

A hunched figure perused a small chest in the corner, movements slow and dragging. He wore a thick coat, and though his head was down, a red scarf betrayed his person. Before the two men could ask him why he was there, Geoffrey had spoken first.

“I _know_ you’re there. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked, not even facing them. “Take your damn _voyeurism_ somewhere else and let a man work will you?”

His voice was stiff, and ireful, as if _they_ were the ones intruding, which considering the circumstances wasn’t completely wrong.

Jonathan stepped inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Yeah. Also, mind if I borrow your set of keys for a moment?” Casey cut in.

Geoffrey complied with terse movements and returned to his searching. Casey walked over to a desk and began inspecting the keys.

_He hadn’t answered the question._

The doctor coughed to get his attention, though all it fruited was for the man to shut the chest loudly, and move on to another. “Do you know if Matthias had a cage in this room?” Jonathan could drop his pride for a second.

“No,” he replied.

Casey was the most successful of the three, having found the match between his set of keys and Geoffrey’s, and pulling out a pen to mark them as such. He gave the other man’s key ring back and sat down on a chair, regarding the room with quiet pensiveness.

“Try the box labelled ‘misc.’?” the captain offered. “I doubt they’d put a cage, used to hold rats, in ‘personal belongings’, or ‘clothes’.” Geoffrey raised his head, if ever so slightly, at the mention of rats.

“That’s true.” Jonathan flipped the cardboard box flaps outwards and took its contents out carefully. Lo and behold, there it was, underneath a set of metal bangles. “Are these supposed to be here?”

“Huh?” Casey turned to look at the two metal rings, and shook his head. “Don't think so. Looks authentic. Should probably put it with the rest of his personal stuff.” Jonathan set it on the desk by Casey and pulled out the cage.

Geoffrey continued without any hesitance, as if he wasn’t aware they were there, and _obviously_ he was. Because he had just reprimanded them earlier. But the non-confrontational attitude the leader had put on wasn’t normal, as he tended to be vocal, combative—even when the situation didn’t call for it. So Casey decided to speak up, start a conversation, and mayhaps see what was wrong.

“I wonder who sorted his items out,” he began, angling his seat to get a better look at Geoffrey. “Thing’s in the wrong places, yeah? Matt would freak if he knew how disorderly they kept his stuff.”

Jonathan had finished packing the things he took out back in the box, and placed the cage on the desk as well. He stood quietly, and listened. The leader of Priwen still paid them no heed.

“Seriously though! Bloody shame… wouldn’t like my documents scattered about if I went...” He laughed emptily, dragged it on for a bit, before stopping abruptly. “Geoffrey, speak up, will you?”

The man paused his movements for a moment, as if considering it, then Jonathan asked, “Can we talk?” and Geoffrey’s body tensed once more, as he dragged nails across his scalp and exhaled heavily.

Though Jonathan wanted to set things right between him and the hunter, he knew he shouldn’t push the man. Geoffrey seemed content to just completely ignore the doctor, and only grew more frustrated when he spoke.

Then it had dawned on him that Geoffrey hadn’t told anyone else what had happened that night, at least not the specifics.

“I’m sorry—”

“—Just... take the damn cage and get out,” Geoffrey interrupted.

Jonathan opened his mouth in shock, but didn’t say anything else. He exited the room with the cage, leaving Casey behind. From outside, he saw the two men glaring at each other, like a quiet standoff. The captain beat his hand on the wall and grumbled as he left the room too, slamming the door loudly.

“I—”

“Fuck him! Always so self-interested. Speaks about how Priwen should treat each other like brothers, how our lives depended on one another! And when shit hits the fan, he pushes everyone aside and wallows like a goddamn—” Casey looked down and composed himself. “Sorry. I’m just worn out. And I’m shit tired of Geoffey’s abrasiveness.”

“Okay.” They walked through the halls, lights brighter than they had been a few nights ago. Through the slits in the window’s blockades, the last of the torches faded out of view. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, only… what was that about anyhow?”

“I don’t—hmm…” Jonathan faltered. Lying wouldn’t help his cause, and the man did deserve to know. “I think it would be better if you asked McCullum yourself.”

 **“** Aye.”

 

* * *

 

When they finally managed to reach the procession, a total of forty minutes had passed, and it was halfway done. Jonathan held the cage in his hand as all eyes were on him. He asked earlier on, if a silent prayer was any good as a regular one, and they said it was fine. But standing there now, without interference aside from the crackling fires and now-too-loud drums, his quiet and honestly mediocre words felt mindless.

And he didn’t admit that he’d ended his incoherent mumbles—that would put a harlot’s death speech to shame— _at least_ a minute ago. Jonathan had been staring at the floor for a good while now, and it didn’t seem to be ending any time soon. _What was a man of science, who didn’t believe in theism, supposed to say?_

And how was he supposed to conclude it? If only he’d been there to witness the others give their piece. That captain had only made matters worse by volunteering him first.

 _Go for it_ , he prodded himself mentally. “Amen.”

Without any delay, the men had said their ‘amens’ as well, and Jonathan stepped off the platform, leaving the cage along with a few other trinkets. Another man took his place, and the doctor found himself with Casey again, who was now grinning like an animal, _a vicious animal ruthlessly entertained from Jonathan’s own blunders_ , or so he believed.

“Where do the things we leave behind go?”

“You’re assuming we give them away!?” Casey said with mock offense, and Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

“You said there was little space for the dead here. It’s ridiculous to believe you’d hold their possessions at a greater value than their own bodies, could they be found. Am I right?”

“Well yeah, we do. Charity sometimes.” The captain turned as he was called for his turn. “Give me a sec’?”

“I’m actually quite tired. I think I’ll be heading back now,” he said. Casey gave a simple ‘suit yourself’ and proceeded.

Jonathan half expected the man to launch into some melodramatic piece about the thimble, and from the beginnings of it, might have been right. But while he honestly was intrigued about the story, decided to start the trek to his room anyway.

Nights grew only darker and paler over the season, from the approaching winter or some sinister malevolent aura, he wasn’t sure. But he was inclined to believe the latter, since it was all too normal for the supernatural to have some despicable role in his life then by. What happened to the _cynical man_?

_It had died, along with him._

Out of earshot, Jonathan found himself lost in his thoughts again. At first to mundane topics, the smell of rain, the way his boots sounded on dried leaves, and then to _McCullum_. Priwen was a peculiar bunch, but the hunter was exorbitantly so. And that meant a lot, coming from a doctor who now shot blood out of his hands and ate rats.

But Jonathan believed his suspicions were right. Whether by the touch of fate, or not, McCullum was _over_ in more ways than his _attitude_. For one, he had felt the presence of Jonathan’s maker. That enough struck suspicion, as none of the other guards had.

And his movements, his body. They were fluid, and too unorthodox. He could chalk that up to years of dedication to exterminating _leeches_ —Jonathan admitted he was too fond of that word now—but was it?

The doctor entered the building again, supposedly an archive, and from all the things he knew he’d never find out—he wouldn’t have guessed this would’ve been one—it stood among. The drums had died down a while ago while he climbed the stairs. Currently he stood to face the door of 214, and waited. It was uninhabited and closed, and likely to stay that way for long.

He walked away, back to his own room, and slept. Dreamlessly, but without a hitch.

But he’d settle for that.

 

* * *

 

Why weren’t his arms moving? He willed them harder, managing to lift them off the eggshell-white blankets. His legs too, were stiff and slack, but Jonathan managed to prop himself up on his elbows. The room was blinding for a second, though the blinds and curtains were shut. He kept his eyes open under the urge to hide them away, and after a while it became tolerable, and began to see again.

He groaned, the intense lethargy rolling off in waves. _Psychological or physiological?_ What was causing it? A single heartbeat pulsed behind the single entrance to his room, and he sat up as it left. Gently, he got to his feet and immediately swayed, as would the branches of a tree in a cyclone. He arched his back forward, leaning on the walls for support, knowing very well how pathetic he’d look to any other person.

If this wasn’t what a hangover felt like, he didn’t know.

“By the Saints,” Jonathan swore. It was a terrifying experience to feel so vulnerable and weak and only after sleep. “I’m no admirer of the sun, but she is _really_ down on the list as of now…,” he joked to himself.

_For what was there but humor and pain when his body threatened to collapse at any second? He preferred to at least face the struggle with dignity, that is to say without complaint._

A sullen expression emerged from his face regardless, but he pressed on, laying a hand on the door and pulling it open. He hadn’t really expected much, but what greeted him on the hall’s floor, just adjacent to the walls, dispersed the frown on his face nigh immediately. Two cases carefully labelled ‘to Dr. Reid, from Pembroke’ sat beside each other, and atop one of them a note explaining their contents.

He heaved them in and began to unpack, excitedly one might add, according to the lone guard who had been tasked to deliver an extra item to the doctor and watched quietly.

Inside was the typical stock of medical gear and supplies. He unclasped the stethoscope from its holder and swung it over his side. _Reagent bottles, empty and filled—primary standard. A microscope. Slides…_

He went on, finding a pen and jotting down marks on the note attached to the first box, confirming the delivery to be complete. The once bare desk now held an assortment of apparatuses and tools, carefully placed to maximize the little surface area there was. Once he stepped back and admired the sight, he noticed the additional parcel sitting just outside his door—which he forgot to close.

He stooped down to pick it up, finding it lighter than he’d expected.

 _To Jonny,_ he beamed at the signage, and read the paper attached.

_Over thirty years have passed, between you and I, though those figures may not mean much in your world. In the first twenty, we lived like would two peas in the pod, I might jest. But do forgive me. As of writing this note, tears threaten to sting my eyes once more, though not of bitterness, but of sad acceptance. I dally._

_In the next ten or so, I do not remember, we drifted apart. Maybe it was the war, or your overworked aspirations for your medical career, or perchance my faulty marriage. It is true that no amount of sorrow will make things right, but misery loves company. We’ve changed. Had I the chance, I would have done anything to prevent this. I do not know you anymore, and you do not know me, not as we once had, my brother._

_The seasons change, winter comes, but my love remains. I think it is time, we get to know each other again. I know you tried, and one day we will find solace,_

_Your favorite sister._

Tenderly, he slid the note back, and unwrapped the package that came with it. A dress shirt very much like the one he wore as he returned to London, laid among a pile of other items. He took it in hand, and withdrew a bowler hat—he’d worn them before, but the last one had gotten lost—and a large leather-bound notebook and fountain pen, as well as some of his old documents.

He was awed beyond belief, and thankful as much as. One hand slipped to feel the papers’ yellowed texture, and flipped them over as he read. Once more, he began to study them.

 

* * *

 

It had already become dark, though Jonathan hadn’t noticed, or maybe he didn’t really care. He’d scribbled down his findings in the notebook provided by his sister, along with notes that were most relevant to the current events. Someone had entered the room earlier, though the doctor had paid them no mind, and they had left soon after.

Click. Jonathan tried the table lamp on, then decided to shut it off. There was no difference in reading the tiny writings and prints despite the lack of light, and he actually liked that. Long gone were the mortal limitations of reading in the dark.

Mid-sentence, Jonathan put the pen down. He could, and would, go on forever. _And what was stopping him?_ Closing his eyes, to focus, not to rest, Jonathan felt for the presence of anyone he could sense. The floor was mostly without anyone, aside from a few people scattered about. He looked up and down then, finding it similarly empty.

But there did happen to be a single one, still awake if his heart rate was to be believed.

 _McCullum_ , he realized, seeing that the man had also a debility, something wrong with his lungs.

 _It was the dead of night, a cold one at that,_ he thought, _and the man was still awake, doing whatever it was the Guard did when they weren’t blatantly antagonizing anything without a pulse._

“Should I?” Jonathan said to himself. While his presence obviously peeved the other man— _n_ _o, that wasn’t dire enough._ He _was definitely agitated upon sight, and for good reason._

There would be no point in beating himself up about it. No one knew what the outcome would have been. And there was little to do, than just watch the man die, slowly.

As a doctor, he wanted to save him, but as a rational man, he saw that there was no other way—his feet moved before the next thought, bringing him out to the hall, and eventually up the stairs—but he was also a _human_ , before and until now, he believed, because he wanted to do what was right. And that part of him remained, for the hunger was big, but his heart was _bigger._

_And he would do what he needed to—_

He was at the door, and suddenly he lost his words. Feeling for the handle, then changing his mind, Jonathan knocked thrice, and received no response, though he knew Geoffrey was still there.

“I just want to have a word with you.” He waited.

Geoffrey wiped the barrel of his revolver without pause, spitting a bit on it and dragging a rag over. He looked up, a shadow formed just under the gap of his door, and returned his eyes to the cleaning. No amount of work would return the well-worn metal to its former shine, but it helped nonetheless.

Dents and scratches lined the handle as well, and he ran his fingers along them. He wouldn’t say he’d remembered how each one had came to be, but some of them _—_ the bigger ones _—_ he did. _Memories, scars, all tokens of the past. The only difference were the impacts they left behind._

He looked up again, the shadow yet unmoving. “Not locked.”

“Thank you.” Jonathan entered, seeing the man lounged on a chair, feet atop the table in front of it, and tending to his revolver. A candle burned low, wax dripping in mottles of white and staining the already ruined portion of the desk even whiter. While the Geoffrey’s pose was anything but leisurely, he emanated an aura of hostility only furthered by the _lack_ of his signature scowl.

“I’d just given up, and was about to leave actually.”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” a gruff voice returned.

He remained quiet after, watching the doctor steadily. With the lack of an extra, empty chair, Jonathan had been forced to stand at a distance from the man. The ceiling was low, and the room smelled of alcohol. Geoffrey noticed his face twitch, _to resist scrunching his nose._

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Go on then.”

Jonathan’s eyes tightened around the corners, taken aback by his sudden agreement perhaps. “I’m no child, McCullum. You saw what I did. You saw what needed to be done. He pleaded for me to end it…”

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t easy. I’m no cruel fiend,” he said, seeing that the man had taken his eyes off and begun to shine his gun again. “I’m not here diplomatically, not to strategize and make my position here any safer.”

_What was he here for then?_

“I wanted to apologize.”

“Doctor, doctor,” Geoffrey ridiculed. “You know better than me that apologies don’t bring the dead back to life.” He turned his cold eyes to Jonathan and stared with renewed vehemence. “In fact, you know _better_ than to _be_ alive right now.”

It wasn’t the effect he had expected, but it was one nonetheless. Jonathan’s expression softened as if hurt, and he opened his mouth to speak, before Geoffrey cut in again.

“Why come here to apologize? You know I don’t like you. And I know you feel the same about me.” Geoffrey fed bullets into the revolver’s chambers, and after placing his feet back down to the floor, fastened the gun to his belt. “What could you possibly want?”

“To make things different,” Jonathan said, the words lingering for a while. “I’m tired, Geoffrey. I’m sick, and so _sick_ of being tired, and dead, and confused.”

“I don’t need—”

“—and you’re sick too!” he stated, in his thick baritone. “You’re sick of me being here! You don’t trust me, none of you do. I’m a problem! And I understand that…”

Geoffrey leaned in dangerously, eyes growing dark. “How you feel is none of my damn concern. I want you leeches _dead_. It just so happens you being alive might’ve been a better alternative than otherwise. _Might've._ ”

The flame's light flickered ominously in the dark, and Jonathan’s attention didn’t go unnoticed. Geoffrey took a candle from a bag stashed in the drawers, crinkling plastic accompanying it. He heated the bottom, and lit the top with the other one, then secured it to the table.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Jonathan said. “You’re actually sick, and I’m sure your body is feeling it. The onset of pneumonia.”

“That’s what this is then? Came to laugh at my misery? Attack me when I’m weak? Well here’s the funny thing,” Geoffrey bit back harshly. “I don’t need your help. I’m not going to say it again. And you damn well be getting that in your head, lest I replace my words with bullets.”

Jonathan straightened in shock. Then he bowed quietly, and turned to leave the room.

 _The doctor was just trying to help,_ Geoffrey could tell. But he was already worked up, for a reason he wasn’t sure.

_No, that was a lie. He knew fucking well, why._

It was the pent up guilt, the shame. The lack of patience, and things to take his mind off problems. And endless compromises due to _his own_ faults.

Jonathan hadn’t killed Matthias.

_He did._

_He_ walked into the trap. _He_ took his sweet time killing the leech. _He_ dodged the spears, getting Matthias—who hadn’t seen them—hit instead. He couldn’t even kill Lord Braum.

_He should’ve been the one who died._

Geoffrey hadn’t realized it, but his head was already down, and his eyes were damp. He banged his fists on the table, knocking the candle over and setting a paper filled with pen smudges alight. He stayed unmoving for a few seconds, then lifted his head to set the candle back and pat down the fire.

_Jonathan was still there._

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Geoffrey spat out.

The doctor fumed, and the sight was one to behold, as he didn’t usually look so _violent._

Geoffrey placed a hand on the gun.

“Geoffrey McCullum!” Jonathan said too loudly, then breathed deep to calm himself. “Please! I will not delude myself with ill-born fantasies and naysaying. I am a doctor. And I am a _vampire_. I cannot change who I’ve become.” His shoulders slumped. “But I can still do the right thing! I’d like to think myself your ally!” Silence was the only company, but he was far too used to that by now, so he continued. “And maybe one day, your friend.”

 _Every time the sun rose, it only got harder, to want to live. To wake up, and not tell himself to ‘bite the bullet’._ He slept with his gun in hand sometimes, _far too often_ actually. For the time he’d eventually buckle under all the bitter tidings, and succumb.

_He didn’t want Jonathan’s pity, or help._

“I don’t need—” Geoffrey shut his eyes, hand loosening from his weapon. What was it that Matthias said once before? When Geoffrey had tried and failed to help him with his research, making a mess out of everything like he always did?

_‘Can’t teach an old dog new tricks!’ Bah! Such a damn lie, that is, you know? Just keep trying! You’re not that old anyway, sir. What are you anyway, twenty?_

_Old enough to be your da, maybe even more. I lost track, you know? Alzheimer’s is a cunt._

They laughed, and though he never actually got to learn how, to perform research, he really wasn’t that _old_ yet anyway.

Geoffrey exhaled, eyes meeting Jonathan’s. And he let himself smile, if only a twinge of it, for just a tiny second. The doctor seemed fazed, like he’d witnessed the man come back to life on the third day.

_Perhaps he can learn again. Learn to be someone else. Someone not as rash, not as hard-headed. Not as broken. And maybe this was his chance._


	8. Iridescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan goes on a mission or two. Priwen goes through the typical routine, though something's amiss. Some people know more than they let on, and things go downhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Runing late sorry ><*
> 
> [Info on the pacing]  
> Quite a lot of scenes happen, and there's not too much focus on any of them. Some are pretty normal, others are... something else. I tend to think of the second chapter in the arc as something I can experiment on, since the first is dedicated to introducing the conflict, and the third is to resolving it. It's a bit silly in some places though that's how the characters would act according to the circumstances imo.
> 
> Enjoy the calm before the storm?
> 
> [Explanation for absence]  
> I had a hard time writing this chapter and continuing the fic for a lot of reasons, some of them I'm not really willing to divulge. The main thing is lack of motivation, which I'm sure most other people have had the trouble of facing as well. I already know the story, how it's eventually going to end up, etc. Maybe it's just how I view writing as a whole, but the enjoyment is mostly for others and not really myself (I do like writing, but I'll never experience my own story how others would). There's also the fact that I'd written 7 chapters in one month when I've never committed myself to something that long before, so I probably had burn-out. The initial draft of this chapter also had relatively little plot. Posting it at that state, or even just continuing to write it, was really tough. I've avoided touching the chapter because I wasn't satisfied at all with it, and had no idea if I could direct it to something better.
> 
> I asked my friends and my beta irl for their suggestions. Some of what they said was that I take my time as long as the output is decent quality (aka don't rush it); have a break (an actual break, not just trying to write and procrastinating and ending up writing nothing at all); link chapter 8 better so it isn't a problem to write and fit in to the rest of the story; find support and inspiration from others; and stop writing if it stops being fun or if no one wants to read anymore.
> 
> I think I'll give up on the "update quickly in one arc" schedule. I'll probably still deliver content in 3 chapter series but I'll say it now—updates might be sporadic. If you're still willing to continue reading, thanks a lot! I'm thankful that some of you are even interested in my little fic.

A blade gleamed in the moonlight to cut down a Skal with ease, then raised up to block a blow, and another, before flying again to decapitate the vile leech. He would have paused to catch his breath but there was no time. Another of the beasts joined the fight and gnashed its teeth towards him, eyes twitchy and reddened. He tightened his grip, side-stepping at the last moment of its lunge, thrusting the silver weapon deep into the rib-cage then pulling it back out with some of the guts still attached.

It yowled in pain, though didn't seem to understand _why_ , lunging once more and failing to make distance. The man moved aside and in one swift motion dismembered the creature, leaving it to bleed out helplessly.

In the periphery, one guard fell to the ground, overwhelmed from the onslaught of both the blinker Skal’s and Large Beast’s attacks. Someone ran to help him up while another pulled out a flamethrower, singeing the leeches and aggravating them both before pulling down his neck-warmer and issuing commands for the patrol to regroup. The air darkened with ash and smoke. What started as a small clash with a pack of leeches attracted even more, and if it kept on they’d soon be outnumbered.

Walls stretched up into little shanties, and the streets stood a mess of broken, tattered parts. To recoup somewhere else or retreat seemed the only reasonable choice. None blocked their exit, the way they came from still clear from any other of the vermin. But they couldn’t stop now. They were close. Heat permeated through chilly London, followed by a thickness that could easily suffocate. The men were prepared, as always. Red bandanas and goggles hid and protected their faces well. They moved on.

 _Four days_ . Four had passed since the events at Pembroke. Since the ambush. And they had finally found a lead. The Skals ran amok, like flies to rotten food. What _they_ were attracted to, he assumed was somewhere here, in Whitechapel. _But where the Skals had actually drawn from, they weren’t completely su_ —

“Agh!” A limb had collided with his abdomen, sending him into a tumble across the pavement and into a wooden barrel, shattering it from the impact. He pushed himself off and pulled out his revolver. Strong, boney hands held it back, and he struggled to break loose. The Skal’s twisted features held dangerously close.

Its strength was only amplified by mania, and his diminished by his disadvantageous position. One foot teetered on a loose pebble and gave out, dropping both to the floor.

He screamed as it came upon him. Its teeth had latched onto his face and punctured two holes from its incisors. He pushed away, only for it to bite back down on his shoulder. His body soon gave way, feet wobbly and arms weak.

Three dreadfully slow seconds passed. The flaring pain quelled down to a mere pressure as he began to pass out.

Three more seconds.

The weight was violently taken off him, and he rolled over to his side. An older man stood between them, one hand prepped with a saber and the other tucked behind him. The Skal sped forward as the man blocked and missed, but it wasn’t coming for him.

He picked himself up as it attacked again, twisting in place, and stabbing a wooden stake into its jaw then once more to its kneecaps. It fell forward.

Jonathan dragged a tongue over his teeth, acute metallic taste flooding his senses as it was nicked in the process. He’d have opposed such thoughtless behavior in the past, but that was a long, long time ago. And he’d enjoy his first meal in half a week—considering the fact it had also nearly taken his face off. In a brief moment he ripped its torso open, blood covering the front of his shirt, and surging into his open jaws. Even when it fought back with scratches and pushes, he did not let go, holding it down to savor the moment in all its worth as it died limply in his grasp, slowly.

Stepping back, he cleaned the blood off his lips. “What do you... make of the situation, Captain Jenn?”

“By the bloody saints, fuck if it ain’t here!” The man held a hand over the right side of his face, as if trying and failing to keep the blood in. “If it isn’t what we’re looking for then, well— _”_  He turned his head down as blood and spittle fell below from a horrendous coughing fit.

Jenn hadn’t seen the blade crashing down towards his back nor the tall figure holding said weapon. But Jonathan did, and he blocked it with his own.

“Eh. Another—” the captain began, before taking in the situation. Just behind them a few yards away, were even more of the devilish _posh_ creatures staring down and waiting, easily a dozen and then some. “Fall back!” he shouted, signaling his men with a series of whistles and gestures that Jonathan honestly didn’t remember the meaning of. “We take the high pass!”

_Two shots in the air, three fingers up, two whistles._

Metal came upon metal again, and he was forced out of his thoughts. The man across him guided the blade with deliberately slow movements. Jonathan knew he himself was no more proficient than the average cadet when it came to sword-fights, but he also knew, he excelled in other ways.

He feinted a swing which the other easily avoided. He then jabbed, missing, and went again, still not connecting. The Ekon boldly tried a low strike and huffed, clearly not expecting the doctor to parry it to the right, allowing it to catch the fabric of his coat and barely scrape his side.

“What!?”

Bracing his teeth, Jonathan beat the man’s face with the pommel of his blade thrice, then severed his jugular and drank. Kicking him off, he shot blood spears from his fingertips, hitting the man square in the chest as well as two others that had been sneaking into the battle behind them.

Prickly stings swam in the bruises and scathes he’d accumulated over the course of the night. Like a spider curling a web, soft flesh met flesh at the ends and pulled themselves back into place.

There were a lot, eight perhaps _._ He wasn’t prepared to take them on. He recalled the procedures for retreat, and it suddenly clicked.

 _Smoke the area. They were going to smoke them out and escape under the cover of the rancid gas._ It worked devilishly well against them, burning skin and corroding their bodies if left for too long, and it barely affected humans.

_The problem was that it would affect him too._

A leather-gloved hand cut off his thoughts, pulling him back. “Eyes closed! Hold on!” he shouted, _Captain Randall_ , and Jonathan complied, following with his other senses.

In a few seconds his skin began to sting, and he could have sworn, been peeled off. In the next few, he got his bearings and opened his eyes again. Randall had already let go, quite aggressively if that meant anything.

“Night shelter. Mark it down,” one said.

“Aye.” another replied.

“We’ll be back…”

At some point they’d stopped running. He walked with the rest of the patrol, and without looking back could imagine the pained and suffering groans of the leeches left behind.

In the absence of anything exciting his thoughts came back to the start, how differently his life have become, had he not been captured, _had he gotten away with murdering his sister._ He frowned at the thought.

The moon was out though clouds dulled its presence. And the crows that had since been the only animals, aside from rats mostly, that moved about in plagued London, were nowhere to be found. The night was quiet aside from their footsteps and hushed breathing.

What if he had actually escaped back then, on the night of his breakout? _Why didn’t he?_

Did it really matter anymore? He questioned his own sense of morality. Of course, no one would know, but he had secondary intentions for joining the war.

 _Serving your country_ , _people always said._ _But no, he took it as a chance to perform what would otherwise be… impractical on the wounded in the field._

It really _didn’t_ matter, and the more he realized this, all the more he accepted that his condition didn’t affect him at all. In the traditional sense, maybe, but practically? Not at all.

He looked down to his hands for a while, then to the front of his outfit. His excursions never led to much more than fights and blood-stained inconveniences.

 _But just as a thought, despite everything..._ _He wanted to say it could have turned out differently. He wouldn’t be running, fighting._ Everything could have turned out better. He wanted to explore those possibilities instead of being helplessly blown around and forced to accommodate. That horned, blood-figure. His curse. His _problematic_ captors.

He looked around. The people that surrounded him _,_ they fought for a good cause, and against pessimism he wanted to do so as well. They despised vampires, what he’d never agreed to becoming, and so despised him as well. And so far, they weren’t wrong to. None had proven otherwise. Neither had he.

Jonathan turned his head to find Randall sneak glances back, then face away with downcast expression.

_In the end, humans, even those with blades and guns and the wits to use them to their full extent, were still more agreeable than the alternative._

_It could have been better?_

_It could have been much worse._

_He wasn’t so sure._

 

* * *

 

“What the f-fuck!” someone stammered. “Ow! Hey!”

“Please, I’m just trying to help, sir.”

_Calm down._

“Trying to help!” he shouted back. “If you wanted to help then you wouldn’t be stabbing me with needles and shit right now!”

The doctor winced in mock pain. “That offends me. I’m trying my very best to make sure you don’t catch infection, and heal properly, and you’re _cursing_ me for that. So I take it you’d rather do all this yourselves then?” He shook his head and sighed. “If I’m not any use, you’d just revert to your old habits and hunt me down, yes? With your torches and knives.”

_Likely._

The man’s mouth mimicked an ‘o’, and scoffed. “Witty fucking leech-prick—ow!”

“He can do much more than stab needles in your shoulder,” another voice said. “Saw him pull stuff out of Captain Jenn’s eyes earlier you know!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!” He replied way too enthusiastically. “And you know the best part?” When the man’s tone shifted to a lower tone, Jonathan hummed in interest. “Jenn wasn’t fucking yammering on and on about teensy tiny needles, Barry! He lost his eye and he’s fine!”

 _This was going to take a while_. Casey stepped away from the wall where he eavesdropped, and walked back out.

“Screw you both,” Barry said with finality, crossing his left arm over a shoulder without moving the other.

“What is that anyway? Looks like something you’d get from falling over a swing!” he taunted further, but Barry ignored him.

Jonathan worked on without receiving any more complaints, and that was fine. But he _did_ find the silence odd for the men of Priwen. They were loud, often comically so, and while they were grating at most times, them being this quiet was unnerving.

“May I ask if anything’s bothering you?” Jonathan asked the man, pulling the last stitch taut and getting rid of the excess. “I remember you all much more spirited than this.”

“Me? No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just get it over with and I’ll be on my merry way again.”

Jonathan furrowed his brows. “I’ve never been the best, picking up on sarcasm.”

“He isn’t.” The other man walked over to lean by Barry’s seat, and give him a stink eye. “Just a bit of a dick most of the time. And even when he is serious, comes off as impolite or—”

“Oh bugger off already!” Barry rolled his eyes. “Are we done here?” When Jonathan nodded, he gave a half-hearted ‘thanks’ and made off, the other following him at his side.

His mind was idle as he continued to work on the other men’s injuries, actions automated at that point.. They were situated in a wide, barred-up building with beds, benches, chairs, and the other necessities. Patients came and went, and the small group of three other medics and him made quick work of the remaining injured.

He took a glance up towards the ceiling. Dim bulbs on rusty holders kept the room evenly lit, albeit not that well. But they did have floor lamps scattered about, so that was compensated for at least.

“One of the older buildings, probably.”

“Reid.” A man had apparently taken a seat in front of him. Casey eyed him tiredly.

“It’s been a long day. I was just looking around.”

“All good,” the captain said almost too quickly. He sighed and pulled out a pill bottle from his back pocket. “Geoffrey keeps forgetting to take his meds. And this one’s expiring soon.”

“Let me have a look at it,” Jonathan said. “Anti-inflammatory,  anti—.” His eyes lit up. “Ah yes, I remember.”

Casey nodded. “There’s a pharmacy nearby. Could take you there, have a see…” He trailed off. “Not really _open_ at night.”

“Pardon me?”

He stared dubiously and Jonathan finally got it.

“You want me to find the meds,” he guessed. Casey grunted in approval. “And then you want me to take them, without paying. At night.”

“Bingo.”

“I’m a vampire, but you do realize I’m no thief.” He bared his teeth as if to emphasize that. “That’s out of my—”

“Nah, you don’t get the whole story. Herman and Lily Wright. Nasty people who run the pharmacy along with supposed ‘medical professionals’,” he said. “But we’ve been there. They have certificates plastered on the walls—all fake.”

“Oh?” Jonathan looked around, finding that no more patients seemed to be coming in, and the other medics were packing up to leave as well.

“They’re frankly a load of horse shite, giving people the wrong meds to get them sick to come back for more,” Casey said. “Had one of our guys check the place out a bit though. They actually do have the real deal. Just either fucking lazy to do their jobs, or they’re really bent on screwing over the people who need them—people who are in fact sick and dying.”

“Either way, you want me to ransack them.”

“Look, I’m not asking you to clear the place, blow their house down.” Casey explained. “We only need the medicine for Geoffrey, maybe a few others you want. I’ll go with you. It’ll be quick.”

“I’m doubtful,” Jonathan said, and the captain shrugged. “When are you planning to do this?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight… Of course you only tell me now.” Jonathan groaned. “Why is it you need me anyway?”

“Believe it or not, I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t serious. Geoffrey’s been coughing up a storm. Hides it from us but you know how he is,” he said quickly. “And you said so yourself. You saw him.”

“I… well, fine.”

The two walked to the North gate as soon as Jonathan finished packing his satchel. Two watchmen opened the gates and asked where they were going. Casey, hands in pockets and with a lopsided smile, gave a vague reply of ‘somewhere dark and moist’. The men snickered.

 _There were certain mannerisms a doctor picked up on._ Jonathan suspected Casey was trying to put on his typical act of indifference and humor, to hide other things.

_He already knew._

“Watch yourself Cap’! Bad choice for a wingman, take it from me,” one teased. “I heard leeches are more interested in gnawing your ear off than—”

“I can handle my own. Get back to duty you wankers.” He didn’t resist a short laugh.

Casey returned to his previous demeanor as they gained distance. The man shivered slightly, and Jonathan realized that the climate actually _was_ beginning to grow cold. _Colder,_ he corrected himself, _at least relatively._

They walked past a few shops, and empty or quiet buildings. Like before, there was nothing aside from them and the occasional Skals and rats. No cats, no birds, no crickets with their previously unremitting but now expected chirping. London felt even deader than before.

When it seemed like both men were content to spend the night in utter silence, Casey spoke up, still walking.

“I don’t get what happened,” he began, and Jonathan listened quietly. “The things that went on that night.”

“When did McCullum tell you?”

The captain paused and looked up as he thought of what to say, raising a thumb up to his chin and knuckles to his lips. “Walked into his office a while after you. He had a bit—quite a lot of drinks actually.” Casey let his hands slide back to his sides. “I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to forget. He does that sometimes.”

“I see. So what exactly did he tell you?”

“All _he_ knew. But—” Casey clenched his jaw, then loosened it slowly. “Said it wasn’t all your fault, somehow. Makes me wonder how that’s so.”

The doctor cleared his throat, landing a hand to rub at his nape. “We were walking back from Pembroke and found a patrol,” he said.

“Then you were ambushed? Two Ekons and a Vulkod?”

“A Vulkod?” Jonathan nodded slowly. “I’m not sure of the bigger one,” he admitted. “But that’s what happened. I incapacitated one of the Ekons— he was the one who entered my room a few nights ago—the other one snuck away.”

Casey urged him to go on, so he did. “Matthias had a small squadron. He followed McCullum into an alley.” Jonathan gave the man a moment, then continued. “When I reached them, Matthias had a gaping hole in his abdomen—I saw his… And McCullum was seething at the Ekon.”

“You saw that he was dying anyway, and just sped up the process then? Thought ‘might as well help myself while I’m at it’?”

Jonathan was hurt by the assumption, but it wasn’t too far off. In the moment it was the _right_ choice. “You have to know that he begged me to do it—to kill him,” he said. “You’re correct. I saw a dying man. I saw that he was suffering. And I knew that there was no point in stopping myself.”

Casey clicked his tongue and sighed, looking up, then down, then away. “I don’t know what to feel.”

“What else can I tell you? How _I_ felt for that?” Jonathan asked flatly. “I _relished_ it. That’s the hard truth. Whether you take that against me or not isn’t my choice. You have the facts, and I apparently have no shame.”

In sudden silence, Casey slowed down the pace to a halt. Jonathan strode to his side and waited, then received a firm punch to his jaw and stumbled backwards.

The captain brushed the hand across his forehead, pushing away loose strands of hair. His eyes remained tight for a moment before seizing. “That… doesn’t make me feel any better,” he muttered.

Jonathan rubbed at his face. “Me neither, though I may have deserved that.” It stung, but not much. Looking at the man, he realized his knuckles were red sore and actually bloody in some parts.

“I’ve heard enough. The past is past. Thought I’d gone over that already. I don’t think you had a choice other than let the man bleed,” he finally said. “Everyone’s still brooding about it though. Can’t do much about that either.”

“How have you been dealing with it?”

Casey lifted his hand up indifferently. “I’m sure you’ve noticed it by now. Need I explain?”

“I suppose not.”

“Let’s leave it at that then.”

They continued their walk. While a conflict of this manner wouldn’t resolve from a mere talk, the tension subsided a little.

Casey let himself relax. He was pissed angry, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Jonathan was too, to some quieter extent. It felt better though, to let that out. _In time the biggest problems seem insignificant, and one can learn—they weren’t really angry at all, just exhausted._

 

* * *

 

The building was old, at least a decade or so standing, merely refurbished if the layers of mismatching paint and stains signified anything. It took almost fifteen minutes more before they arrived, though it felt shorter than that. They stood before it for a while. A wooden board was hung at the center of the storefront proudly declaring it as a pharmacy, though Jonathan wouldn’t be surprised if it were actually a meat plant or butchery instead. It didn’t smell sterile. Refurbished? Re-purposed as well perhaps.

“What now?”

“Shopkeep should be asleep, so the front door’s locked.” Casey brought out a pack of cigarettes. “I suppose you can find a way in yourself. Holler if you need help or some shit.”

Jonathan waited expectantly, eyes lucid and eerie to the other man.

“Uh… enter through the roof maybe. Should be a hatch. A... chimney?” Casey shrugged. “Make do with it. I’ll probably just slow you down.” He handed the pill bottle to the doctor.

“I’ll see if I can find anything better in there while I’m at it.”

“Alright. I’mma just light myself on fire. About as exciting as my part here gets,” Casey mumbled. Jonathan prepared to jump to the roof, when the captain spoke up again. “Just like it wasn’t your fault, I do want Geoffrey to stop being so embittered by it. Feels like crap, you know? Killed his own brother too, and indirectly played a part in… _this_.” He gestured around.

Jonathan looked back uncertainly, and scrunched his nose. “Some other time.” He disappeared into smoke and came back as a silhouette on the building’s roof. Casey gazed up at the him then walked over to a wall and leaned, popping a stick into place.

The doctor barely wobbled as he came to. He walked around to find a metal trapdoor only blocked off with a rusty latch. He pulled on it, feeling it already loose and brittle, then ripped it off in a single motion. It creaked dangerously, ready to fall apart at any second.

Jonathan slunk in and descended as quietly as possible, finding himself in the middle of rows of shelves and boxes. A door stood to one side—locked.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out the pill-case. “Take only what I need…”

He couldn’t keep his mind off how badly the stocks were organized. It was as if they merely filled the place up whenever new shipments and deliveries arrived. _Alphabetized? Related usage? Frequency of purchase?_ He wasn’t a pharmacist per se, but there had to be some system.

That proved itself false by the first few minutes of fruitless search.

 _Antihistamines… aphrodisiacs… cough syrup?_ He read the label again. A boy with dramatic blush held a fluid-filled spoon to his overly eager face. “This boy looks fit as a fiddle. Why not put an image of some actual diseased man on there?”

Jonathan stashed the syrup regardless. “Ineffectual, but well, placebo does have its place in the world.”

He looked back to the bottles, willing for something interesting to break the dead mood of stealing cough syrup from a fraud store. “Geoffrey would make a great poster-boy.”

 _That is, if he hadn’t died already._ Jonathan laughed to himself until he stumbled upon yet another aisle purely dedicated to cough syrup and similar remedies. His smile dropped quickly.

 _What kind of pharmacy was this?_ “If this is the best the localities of London have to offer...” he wondered aloud. He picked up another box of cough syrup, turning it over. “Why in all reasons are there so many of these—”

“Who’s there?” a frail woman’s voice asked. Jonathan froze, box still in hand. “Don’t make me ask again,” she said with a tone that somehow sounded more certain than worried of an unexpected visitor.

_How could he not have heard the keys rattling? Was he so upset with the warehouse’s layout that he hadn’t even heard the door being unlocked?_

“You! Step out of the aisle and put your hands where I can see them!” she commanded. “Don’t think you’ll be getting off fine with the stunt you’re pulling.”

He considered his options, focusing. Her words put on a brave act, but her voice shook, and her heart pumped loudly in his ears. _And from the look of things and the tinge of odor, she was also intoxicated._

_Could he attempt to reason with her? Somehow talk his way out of the obvious attempt of theft?_

“Wait!” he called out as innocently as possible. “I appear to be lost.”

There was a pause, and he resisted glancing over his shoulder. When he heard the distinct loading of a double-barreled shotgun, he hastily placed the bottle back and lowered his head.

 _No, that didn’t work._ Coercion was _definitely_ out of the question. _She had a gun!_ _Why did everyone have guns!? The men, the women, the senile!_ —

— _The hatch!_ he recalled, mouth widening comically, then glancing up at his too far chances of escape. He had to try to make it back up. There was barely any time until she’d pull the trigger.

Jonathan sighed and half turned to the woman’s direction, waiting a moment and praying it wouldn’t result in violence. _He was trespassing, and stealing_ — _and he wasn’t about to beat up an old lady in her own property._

_Curse those distracting cheery pictures._

 

* * *

 

Casey took one last whiff before rubbing the cigarette butt out on the wall. He eyed the aluminum can containing more of the sticks, then after a while placed it away.

“Reid’s taking a while…”

The world seemed clearer to him at that point. How many days had it been since his last smoke? He didn’t remember.

“Probably a very long time ago,” he guessed aloud. “Three and a half days?”

Even under the thick coat, coldness bit into his hands and chest. The feeling slithered back as soon when he had dropped the cigarette. Rubbing his hands together and realizing that he was still cold, Casey made his way to the outer walls of the storehouse.

“Cas peers into the boarded windows,” he announced to himself boredly. “And sees boarded windows! Amazing.” He walked along the wall at a leisurely pace. “Cas goes around the perimeter...”

A faint conversation—no, an interrogation—made its way to his ears, and he picked up the pace.

“Cas hears things that may, or may not be Jonathan getting into trouble.”

 _Was that the sound of a bottle shattering?_ He ran faster.

“Cas sees that the store lights are on for some reason!” he said panickedly, throwing the door open and pulling out his revolver.

“Cas…,” he began to say. “Shit.” he continued, unsure of what to do. Jonathan was giving him the most dumbfounded look he’d ever seen, and an old woman was holding a shotgun to the doctor, and there were bottles and boxes on the floor, and—Sweat formed on his forehead as he decided for something, and exactly what the hell was even happening.

“The code of ethics?” the woman said slowly.

“Yes, exactly!” Jonathan agreed as if talking to a child. “That is very correct!” the doctor reached behind him, pulled a bottle to his eyes, returned the bottle, then took a different one, all while trying to smile pleasantly and maintain eye contact with the woman. “Could you count to ten for me, please?”

Casey slapped his face hard but didn’t wake up. ‘What the fuck’ he mouthed to Jonathan from a distance. The vampire responded with a grimace and two arms in the typical ‘I have no idea either’ position.

“One.”

“Fuck!”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Much to the doctor’s obvious displeasure, Casey stomped forward to the scene then unceremoniously laid two arms over the old woman’s neck, proceeding to strangle her. Jonathan yelled, Casey screamed, and the woman counted to four.

The sound of the shotgun rolling out of her hands and down to the floor accompanied her similarly limp body that also fell to the floor.

Jonathan grabbed at his own hair and his face reddened as he pulled. “Casey! What did you just do!?”

“She had a gun at you!” He pointed to the weapon on the floor. “I choked her! The end!”

Jonathan’s jaw dropped in outrage but no words came out. He pointed a finger to the captain’s face and relaxed himself, then slowly asked, “But did you have to? She was letting me take the medicine!”

“I heard shouting!”

“Yes, she was shouting! You put me up to a task of stealing this woman’s—” Jonathan gestured to the unmoving figure. “—property! If I were the woman, I would have been shouting too!”

Casey cocked his head. “How in all hell did you get her from screaming bloody murder to counting to ten as you pillaged her things?”, he practically wheezed out.

“I don’t know, but I had a plan!”

“It was stupid!”

“It was _working._

“You fucking mesmerized her, didn’t you!” Casey’s eyes widened. “Oh—damn—why would you— _what did you say?_ ”

Jonathan raised his eyebrows and looked down. “I… well, I tried to reason with her at first.”

“She didn’t like that.”

“No,” he replied. “So I tried the next option. I made it look like _she_ was at fault. For some reason. I said she was commiting crimes far greater than mine and she should shut the place down.” He paused. “You know, that really shouldn’t have worked.”

Casey stared at Jonathan, who was suddenly more interested in the floor. “Just so we get this clear, this—” The captain waved his hands around the place. “This is you.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak but Casey cut him off. “I may have done _that_ —” He pointed at her body yet again. “But I didn’t mess her up, alright?”

“I’m highly worried you didn’t accidentally snap her neck with your brutish hands,” he said quickly under his breath.

“Eh, yeah _sure_. We should leave before her husband shows up.”

“For once tonight, I actually agree with you.”

 

* * *

 

Jonathan continued to walk alone now. Tiny white circles beamed from above in routine arrangement. The mist hadn’t lifted yet and writhed around him, around—wherever he was. He looked to the streetlights again. They weren’t _quite_ white, tinted slightly off from age or some other factor.

It was getting late. Spending the night at some nearby inn was becoming a tempting idea, but making it home in time for Mary’s _special_ day was of greater priority.

“I should hurry.”

Clack. Clack. Splash. His fine dress shoes sounded loud on the brick pavement, and louder in the puddle of… “Blood?”

Ahead was an open door, and even from what looked like a hundred yards it radiated a homeliness and comfort only second to a parent’s love.

 _It was just water_ , he repeated in his head. Looking back down, his trousers were not soiled and neither were his shoes.

 _It was just water._ A ringing in his ears, a tightness in his chest, a tap-tap-tap from the other side of an unseen glass wall— _what was happening_?

He couldn’t walk any longer. His feet were tired and his knees were bruised. A miscalculated push had sent him over his mind, and off the swing. _Don’t worry Jonathan,_ he told himself. _Dad was coming to pick him back up._

 _But how much longer? It didn’t usually take this long._ Cold hands gripped his own and gingerly brought him to a stand. He let go to cover his mouth, then wipe at his eyes before opening them. An old man with a beard—his father—smiled softly.

 _No, it wasn’t father_. His nose was slightly crooked, and his eyes were bluer, colder, and face slimmer overall.

And his teeth were sharper, he couldn’t help but notice. _What would a man possibly need those for?_

Still, Jonathan smiled back through tears and bruises. The man started to cry as well, and they talked, because they knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Jonathan held the young boy and hugged him to his chest. It was not cold, nor warm. _There was no body._

He fell to the floor and curled up. A rawness had built up in his throat from the dryness. It hurt terribly, everywhere, but especially at his core. Slowly he felt the walls of his heart tighten and beat to their finale.

He willed his eyes open, not realizing they already were. A formless red watched over him then started to fade. _This was the night he was attacked!_ _The missing memories!_

“N…” His voice did not cooperate. “No… hold on...”

_Why awaken? Be still and drift into another self._

“This is only a dream, a nightmare.” _Easy, easy._ “None of this happened.” It was that same horned figure again, floating.

 _Why do you shun the nature that precedes you? It is not uncommon to go un-nourished for days, even weeks_ —Jonathan swore the _demon_ frowned— _But you musn’t neglect the task at hand._

Jonathan waited in silence. None of it was real, not even his maker, not here at least. He didn’t want to listen.

“Am I _not_ real?” It had been speaking through his mind, as his own thoughts. And now it spoke from the form in front of him. His spine chilled. “You severely misunderstand our motives, and the kinship between us. I am not bound to this realm, nor physical means. I exist as do the seasons, the living force in the earth, as surely as time that which wilts the flowers.”

“I refuse to play by your sick games.”

“There is no sicker play, than the futility of man.”

Jonathan huffed, “Not this again. Must I tell you once more to cease your riddles?”

An unnoteworthy lad shambled to Jonathan’s feet and fell. He had a bullet hole right above his carotid artery.

_He’d bled out before Jonathan could help. It was just another casualty of the war._

Blood was on his hands. The man gasped as he began to drift away. He couldn’t save him before, but now the dying man could still be of _use_.

Jonathan licked his lips and fed without hesitation nor resistance. “It is all a puzzle, a dream I cannot yet wake up from.”

“Yes.”

Jonathan looked up from his meal and saw the other injured men, brought into the little service tent by the dozens. “Then there is no harm in _enjoying_ myself.” He smirked.

 _Private Williams who had died of excessive bleeding. Colonel Bakers who had been killed in the field and had given his last will, to have his two, now parentless children transferred somewhere safe. Sergeants Hugh and Tristan, who had fought valiantly at the enemy station but were captured and_ — _whatever._ They were dead, and they did not matter anymore.

 _It was a dream. It was a twist on his memories. They did not matter. They did not_ —

“I weep for you, my champion.”

“I did what you wanted,” Jonathan answered back. “ _This_ is my nature, which I try to avoid. There is no reason for remorse in my own thoughts and dreams.”

“Prithee remember incorruptibility and integrity. You know yourself the truth. I do not sway my words, nor your own, merely guide.” The demon, whose face came into vision and showed genuine sadness, laid a hand onto Jonathan’s eyes and closed them. “Beware the witch’s call.”

Jonathan scrambled off the bed. A stack of papers fell into a pile above him. _Someone was outside._

 _He had killed those people only mentally._ He brushed the papers away then bit down on his hand hard enough to bleed. “Damn.”

 _Eyes open, ears trained._ Outside his window, a few blocks away stood a slim woman who undoubtedly was, “Lady Ashbury?”

He fiddled with the window handle and got it open wide, but gave up since he wouldn’t fit through it anyway. Instead he left through the door and down the stairs, quickly and quietly enough to not alarm any guards. He jumped to the roof of a nearby building, then a tower, then off the high fences of Priwen.

Elisabeth gave a small bow, smiling. It hadn’t crossed his mind to check on his clothes, so he hoped the lady wouldn’t mind the informality.

“Good evening. What brings you here at this time?”

She spoke slowly and tightly. “Good evening as well, Jonathan,” she said, smile leaving suddenly. “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

“Go on. We need to be quick.”

“Alright. Ascalon’s on your case, an order of London’s most esteemed Ekons. They know who you are and what you’re capable of,” she explained. “But they want to know _more_. About your affiliations, your maker.”

“I guess that rules _you_ out as my maker.”

She looked into his eyes. “I would not be so careless as to leave my progeny alone and fend for themselves.”

“Ascalon then… they’d already aggressed against me first. Just earlier this night we’d been attacked, and another time a few nights ago.”

“ _‘We’_?” she repeated. “Jonathan, dear, what do you mean? Ascalon is by no means amiable, but they are tolerant. Priwen on the other hand will do anything to exterminate our kind. How have you even befriended them?”

“I hate to say it, but I’m more their willing prisoner than anything else.” He looked back to the headquarters.

“We will overlook that fact.” She shook her head in dismissal. “My status as a woman of authority grants me some obscurity over their eyes, both sides. And it also grants me a closer watch on them,” she said. “Do you understand? Ascalon is planning something dire. I do not know what, but it is most likely focused on you.”

She paused to think, then spoke again. “Do you have any relatives here in London?”

“My sister is currently visiting our mother at the Reid manor. Otherwise, she is alone with our butler Avery.”

“You must keep an eye on them.” The lady raised her head to look past Jonathan. “Someone’s coming.”

“Thank you very much. I appreciate your concern.”

“It is not every century you meet a charming and handsome Ekon,” she teased. “I will take my leave now. In case you need to discuss anything, I’m normally at my mansion in the West End. Red bricks, and marble pillars. You can’t miss it.”

“Found something?” Geoffrey asked from behind, then coughed a bit. “Your pills are shite by the way, hard to chew. Too dry, don’t go down well.”

“Geof—McCullum! You take those with water!”

He waved him away. “Yeah I’ve got a brain. I was joking... The syrup though.” He made an ‘ok’ sign and clicked his tongue. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

“Still a bad liar. Pfft.” He pulled a cigarette box out as Jonathan glared, then hid it again.

“Smoking? That’s not good for your lungs. You’re in treatment.”

“What would you know? You don’t even use yours anymore,” Geoffrey answered snappily. “Anyway, best explain whatever it was you did tomorrow, _leech_. Go and head back.”

“Fair enough.” As he was led back he thought of what to do, and what to ask. “I have a request for now,” Jonathan said. “Do you know Ascalon?” Geoffrey squinted at him then nodded after a while. “I have reasons to believe they’re working against me.”

“Yeah? They’re against _us_ in general. You siding with Priwen and not them? Sure as hell pisses them off.”

“I think it’s more serious than that. Could it be possible to check on my family again, or send a dispatch force to watch them?”

Geoffrey nodded again. “Second option. I’ll gather a few men, see if any would volunteer first. Schedule’s hectic this week so no promises.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“More so now. The Skals you see, they’re one kind of many, and more unpredictable recently, not only hunting for satiety but… something else. Primal instinct?” he offered. “You have the tools from Pembroke. Maybe you could do your ‘sciency’ stuff and find something.”

“Maybe,” he said and let silence take over for a while. “I do want to see my family again. You’re not planning to keep me here forever, no?”

“No, just until you become human again.” Geoffrey coughed then gave a half-grin. “You could just try to escape again. But we’d find you, drag you back, then put you in a _real_ cage.”

Jonathan stayed quiet. While the man being _not so hostile_ was a positive, he couldn’t help but feel bad to have his wish ungracefully ignored. And it must’ve shown because Geoffrey spoke up again.

“We’ll see.”

Geoffrey split away once they reached the gates to head towards another building. _The barracks?_ _Was he actually going to get people to guard his home?_ Jonathan decided to leave it to luck. For now he would rest.

His sleep was dreamless and he woke up to fatigue. Even from the curtained up windows, the sun’s heat made itself known. It wasn’t as bad as before, but he doubted it would ever be the same either. He checked his watch. It was only in the wee hours in the morning—go figure.

Jonathan lay down again but the bumbling chatter through the door kept him alert. What were they talking about?

_Missing?_

_No._ _This was a joke. They were messing with him._ _He wasn’t hearing right._

On cue, Geoffrey rapped on the door and before Jonathan could get up to answer, already burst in and opened it wide. His hair was messy, sticking out in places, and he didn’t look well-slept at all.

“She’s gone! Your sister’s been taken...”

Jonathan dashed towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any thoughts, no matter if small or large, constructive or not, do tell me. It's nice to know how you guys feel and what I did wrong/could do better. Was it not up to par? Was it horrible? Did it make you retch and fall over from how bad it was? If so, sorry, but thanks so much for reading this far if you have. Take care!


	9. Sanguine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting cold. Things are looming above us. No one hears, no one sees, but they can feel it in their bones. And our protagonists are busy chasing the sun down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Revamp Progress] *Dates are my schedule for editing but are not confirmed for completion.*  
> Chapter 1: Done | Chapter 2: Done | Chapter 3: Done | Chapter 4: Done | Chapter 5: Done | Chapter 6: Done | Chapter 7: Postponed | Chapter 8: Postponed | Chapter 9: Postponed
> 
> This took a bit longer than expected. I was hoping to upload it by Christmas :/
> 
> It's also a shorter chapter compared to the previous ones, though hopefully you'll like it anyway! I'm planning to revamp the previous chapters before I work on the next arc, which should be relatively short if I follow my outline. I think it won't take too long (?) Probably gonna focus on chapters 1, 5, 8, and 9 (this one). 
> 
> POV jumps a lot here, and there are a lot of chapter breaks. If this bothers you, I can change it ;p I also asked my primary reader if some parts were too short, and he said yeah, but I think some of them worked nicely.

The doctor’s body rammed onto his with unsurprising force, while the three other guards formed a wall to keep him in.

“The hell—” Geoffrey sputtered. “—do you think you’re doing!?” His feet slid back on the polished hickory floorboards, struggling to keep them from falling over.

“Let me go...” Jonathan breathed out. “You don’t understand!”

“What’s to get? You wouldn’t last a minute out there! I barely dragged you back in one piece last time.” When it seemed he was losing his ground, Geoffrey bellowed and shoved Jonathan back roughly.

As the vampire fell, three men surrounded and pointed their guns down at him.

“Hold,” the leader commanded, and they backed off without question. “This isn’t something you can do alone. Do you expect—do you really think Ascalon’s going to give her to you if you walked into their trap like a good little lad?”

“I—”

“We’re waiting for a signal here, Reid. The scouts are gonna come back any time,” he said. “Just... fucking hold on alright?”

His head dipped down as he spoke.“I need this. Let me do something.”

“No,” Geoffrey said. “You’re staying here until I get this settled.” He huffed. “Out of all the times to stop using your smart-ass head…”

The guards exchanged glances as the room fell quiet.

“I will not lose Mary to inaction _,_ hunter.” Jonathan pulled himself up and tried again, pushed back even harder into the wall.

“We’ve done our best to help you! I’ve thrown away everything I’ve known about your kind—about you!” Geoffrey snapped. “Stop it.”

The leech met his eyes. “I’m not making any mistake you had with your brother,” he said venomously.

His fist flew across to meet the doctor’s face, but he hesitated.

Jonathan caught it midair and twisted until he felt something pop. Geoffrey shouted, thrown into the plaster wall. It broke inwards as his breath was knocked out.

Why couldn’t he do it?

“Sir!”

He glimpsed the other’s blue eyes before collapsing. The words echoed back to him.

_Why did he have to shoot?_

 

* * *

 

A foot splashed onto the puddle, scattering the stars hung in the dusty skies. Murky water dampened his khakis, though he couldn’t pick it out from the other stains.

Lights flickered on and off as they did. _It was the troublesome area of England_ , a quagmire and dingy corner. _Home to freaks_ , as one person called it. It made sense people would distance themselves from the area.

Be it that it may, he had grown fond of it, but it did hold freaks. He would know. He was one of them. Geoffrey half-smiled.

He turned a sharp left and down a winding path. A forest of makeshift houses with leaves akin to rusty roofs loomed over as he ran. Looking up, he vaguely remembered the people who used to live there.

A dark figure drifted past the fallen tires and rubbish, the pits and troughs which Geoffrey still knew were the best hiding places.

_Was it out of scorn, taunting him of what was and what ended since long ago?_

Everything had changed, but he refused to believe that… _Ian_ … was capable of such malice. _Too stupid, too kind-hearted._

It was only a chase for lost time. _What better place to end the game, than where it all started?_

After all, it was only a matter of day he’d be hunted down.

They were so different. Ian always wanted to make things work out after it all, no matter what. And him? _Well he just wanted it all to end._

A set of eyes met his, and he followed, the pace slowing as they left the district, heading somewhere else. In half an hour or so, it became darker, but the location more familiar.

The building was older than he remembered.

He entered from the split-open door, wondering if the drawings of the elephant were still on the other side.

In the alcove, his arm moved to light the ceiling. It didn’t work, but the gesture was enough and Ian moved, then returned with a bag holding several candles.

“Here.” Geoffrey lit the one held out to him and stepped back.

In silence they waited, and on patchy floor—at least physically—they found common ground. Under the unsteady light, in between blinks, he could almost forget all that had transpired. The years weren’t too apparent.

“You know why I’m here.”

“I still can’t believe it.” He stood within reach, harmlessly, _yet Priwen couldn’t take any chances…_

Geoffrey pulled out his ivory shooter and let it swing idly on one hand. “I’ll make this quick _._ ”

“And you think I will?” the other asked, dropping the bag on a table. “Seen what you’ve done. It’s twisted. Who’ve you become anymore?”

The hunter shook his head. “We’re making London a safer place. Somewhere kids and women don’t disappear in the blue, and families aren’t broken from some leech’s ill intent!”

“That’s what they’ve taught you? You’re as much an oppressor as us _monsters_ that stalk the streets and kill,” he said. “You’d do your own brother in like this? What would ma think of us now—”

“—Don’t fucking bring her into this!” His finger tightened.

A wet gasp escaped the other’s lips. The candle light shook. “Huh, you’ve changed…”

“So’ve you.”

“It’s fitting. Three McCullum’s dead, here,” he said, crimson spreading through his left abdomen, and trickling down to the floor. “Almost poetic, yes?”

Geoffrey realized his arms were shaking. “End of the line, Ian.”

“End of the line,” he agreed.

One pierced his heart. Ian grunted but stood motionless. “My only regret, it isn’t with you.” The second went through brain, and the lights went out.

_It wasn’t betrayal. There was no other choice._

The sound of his brother falling was accompanied only by the chattering of his own teeth. He wished for something to happen, to snap him back to reality, take his mind away from the things he felt and couldn’t feel.

It was a while before a rough voice broke the silence and a hand landed on his shoulder. “Good job, McCullum.”

The black couldn’t hide how badly he shivered, and he felt sick.

“What’s that? White with fear?”

“No, never.”

“McCullum?”

Screwing his eyes in the darkness didn’t take the sight off his mind. The gunshot had flashed just enough to see clearer—his eyes, baby blue. _Ian had never fed. He’d been starving._

“McCullum.”

What was he thinking!? He saw wrong! It was a mistake!

“McCullum!”

Geoffrey started, and the guard holding his shoulder fell over with him. “Private Todd!”

“It’s quite alright, sir,” he said, getting himself and then his leader up. “You’ve been out not too long.”

His heart still pounded in his chest and he knew that if he spoke, his voice would betray him.

Todd turned to the open window in the room and sighed. “Leech escaped. Didn’t chase him, like you asked.”

“So it is.” Geoffrey patted himself down then felt for his head. “God damn…”

“Ice pack?”

He nodded then waved for him to leave. “I’ll be at the chamber.”

The walls supported his weight through the walk. He didn’t really feel, and neither did he fear the nightmares anymore. But had he really gotten over it, shouldn’t they have stopped haunting him?

_‘You can drop the act. It gets easier.’_

_‘I’ve been doing this for six years, sir,’_ he had stated. _‘It’s already easy.’_

Would it be wrong to forget? _Was he even capable?_ The gall to call it reminiscence—thinking of it like that was simpler. _He’d always be thinking, not because he couldn’t do otherwise, but because…_

It was a beautiful day outside, and he was thankful, just for the fact _he_ would be able to enjoy it and more to come.

“So, Geoffrey, did it get any easier?” he asked aloud.

He’d live with his sins, _die with the guilt._ “But I’ll pass on your memory…”

 

* * *

 

“Take a left at the first arrow and head straight.” His voice was more raspy than he’d thought. Even having weaved through the city’s shadows was scalding torture. Jonathan spat out a black mass—he hoped wasn’t dried blood—and it still clung to his teeth.

“Head straight… until the marked sewer drainage, the third or the fourth.” He forced his head up and counted, stopping at the white-painted drain.

The coolness from the ladder’s handle soothed his dry, calloused hands. It didn’t last as he emerged. A shaded garden sprawled outwards, only contained by the large marble fence of Aloysius Dawson’s manor. Quickly, he turned to face inwards and scan for the presence of anyone else. Finding it empty, he returned to the task at hand.

Lady Ashbury’s own was still a ways off in the other direction, but it was closer than from where he started. Once more Jonathan looked using his vampiric senses. The only heartbeats were slow and indoors.

A pang of lightheadedness hit before he could catch himself, and he bent over with a hand on the wall. White flashed in his vision before parting into a dull, throbbing red. The wounds from the previous run hadn’t even healed yet, and the odds didn’t seem better this time around, probably worse. Unfamiliar orange painted West End all wrong, and stark black where light met the high buildings.

 _It’s_ _bloody suicide_ , Geoffrey probably would have told him. A tinge of regret surfaced but he held it down. He could apologize later.

Jonathan brushed a hand through his hair. _So what was the plan?_

_There was no plan._

If he’d learnt anything from Priwen, it was that the dumbest, brawniest ideas sometimes worked best.

Taking some while to prep himself, Jonathan mentally tallied all the ways it could go wrong, then he leaped over and ran before he could doubt the decision.

Heat crawled through and under his skin, as if it had torn through the fabric of his coat. Red bricks appeared stained, darker. The light became unbearably bright, followed by the pain of his eyelids thinning.

The scent of burnt flesh invaded his nostrils, while another flash of white blurred his vision as he looked forward. Dashing the final stretch, he met the door and pounded with mania, fist digging deep enough to draw splinters and blood.

 _Elisabeth!_ He heard himself shout, unsure the name had even left his mouth. “Let me in…”

The agony grew unimaginably, beyond what he’d prepared for. Even when the door opened, he couldn’t stop. “Elisabeth... !”

A woman’s hand caught his, and he fell forward limp, barely enough to get through the portal. He couldn’t see through the haze, vaguely aware that his eyes were already open. Someone’s body pressed against his, textured cloth rough and latticed as he settled his weight down.

_“Doctor Reid?”_

Blackness enveloped him, drowning the other colors out. Reduced to a mess of gasps and anguish, he was blind and the lack of other senses only amplified the remaining one—pain. Nothing helped, except a splash of red, _so close._

_Oh, so close._

But even that aching was insignificant to the white heat that flared from every vein and artery his hunger called upon.

Coldness leaked down his chin, unbeknownst to the fangs that bore through and gashed his own mouth.

Light shoves tried to distance him. He gripped her tighter, and his lips curved back as the woman struggled, doing nothing than further expose herself. A growl escaped his throat as he looked her over. _He was empty. She was a vessel that could sustain him,_ and in his stupor, that alone.

Jonathan’s consciousness lapsed and she screamed as he slammed her dead down. With frightened realization, he lifted his head away and tried to let go. His claws had burrowed into her shoulder and—

 _And the longer he looked_ , the harsher it tugged on the seams of his sanity. _No one would stop him._

He desperately took in breaths, anything to ground himself. But all there was to inhale was his own blood, and he blanked as it ran back through his throat.

Shrieks pierced the air. His fangs broke through the skin between her neck and shoulder. Jonathan eagerly lapped at the seeping blood before an intense beam drove him back.

Jonathan clasped his throat in an attempt to regurgitate. The taste was bittersweet, and he panicked that he still wanted more _._

His legs locked in place and he tried to shield his eyes. A wall of some sorts shattered and his senses came in a flurry, heightened to a point of overstimulation. The light obstructed all else. There was only ringing and white noise.

In tiny gaps, he heard the woman whimpering, clutching her chest with dark hands to reveal a rosary.

“Charlotte!”

The name was the last he heard before the light faded and he saw again— 

Jonathan felt his skull fracture from impact and begin to bleed. He landed hard.

 

* * *

 

There was a fold in the carpet just in front of his nose, and he reached to even it out. His arm struggled to retract.

Jonathan’s whole body felt sore. He closed his eyes again, then opened them to Elisabeth’s face staring with hatred.

“Lady A—”

“How could you do that, Jonathan!” she exclaimed. “Why come here for such an appalling act?”

Blood lined his mouth, all the way down. Jonathan looked up and found her still staring. He turned away, shrinking in place. “Please, forgive me.” From the mirror on the other side of the room, a ruby-red curtain hung loose. There were speckles of dirt, and _blood_ , from his entrance.

He rolled upwards, clutching his face. “Is she alright?”

“Not quite. She could be doing better, but I couldn’t bring her to a hospital, anywhere… And neither could I leave _you_.”

The abrupt sound of feet made him twitch. Jonathan’s body loosened, but he didn’t move. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can start by explaining your sudden arrival.” She paused. “And you could sit.”

“Thank you.” Jonathan stood up and joined her at the opposite end of the table. “My sister, Mary, she’s been captured by Ascalon.” He didn’t dare to face her directly. “Priwen attempted to stop me, but I made it out.”

“They let you go,” she corrected. “No ill-intent meant. You know how dogged they can be.”

 _Oh._ “I thought I could ask for your assistance, since you’re more familiar with these dynamics.” He collected himself and met her eyes. “I… didn’t mean for this. I was irrational—I just wanted to do _something._ ” He apologized again.

This time, she nodded. “I cannot forgive you for what you’ve done. You can’t expect me to trust you.”

“I suppose not.” He looked past her. Some time had passed “I ran so far… through the sewers, through the streets,” he said. “It can’t have been for nothing—I beg of you. At the very least, you could tell me where to go.”

“Through the sewage system? How did you manage to find your way?”

“You must not tell anyone.” He waited for her agreement then continued. “There exists a society of peaceful Skals down there. They seemed hesitant at first, frightened of me, and overtly trying to hide something.” She leaned in. “Their leader saw that I was injured— _said I had good intentions and that she could tell_ —so she gave me directions to Dawson’s manor.

Elisabeth’s eyes narrowed as she spoke again. “If I did tell anyone, they’d declare me hysterical.” There was a sound from the ceiling, and she raised her head. “I want to help you, Jonathan… I really do.”

“How can I convince you?”

“You already have,” she said. “Perhaps you struggle to control yourself—I’ve been a bad associate for allowing this—but the situation is dire, and I can’t ignore your plea.” She stood from the table quickly. “For this time only.”

“Lady Elisabeth…“ Relief flooded through Jonathan, then he scrunched his brows. “How long had passed?”

“Almost an hour, I estimate.” She walked and adjusted a few trinkets. “You must be so worried… I’m not one to side with the Guard, but it was incredibly reckless of you to come here.”

“May I have a look on the young lady?”

She nodded, leading him to the stairwell. “Don’t take my words unerring, but I believe Ascalon wouldn’t… _harm_ your sister.”

The upper floor was similarly furnished. To the top of it, a well-spaced room greeted them, filled with books and paintings, some incomplete. They turned a corner.

“What could they possibly want from me…?” Jonathan sighed. When they entered the room, Charlotte was already up.

Her fierce glare contrasted how calmly she spoke. “Hello again, _doctor_ Reid.” Before he had time to greet her back, she spoke again, and Elisabeth crossed the room. “I’d only heard great things from my mother.”

“An astounding physician, Charlotte.” She lay a hand over her daughter’s.

“It’s in your nature then—couldn’t help but overachieve? Your introduction just had to be a kicker?” Every second standing berated, Jonathan only grew more embarrassed. “Well you’ve made it unforgettable. What now?”

The overachieving doctor tried to catch his words, but all he could do was wince as he tried to understand why he was getting so flustered. Elisabeth sat by her, and he could only wonder how such a quiet and pragmatic mother could sire the boisterous lady.

“I’m deeply sorry for everything, miss Ashbury. To tell you the truth, I was only _born_ back a few weeks ago,” he said. “Your mother had been the one constant guide this whole time.”

“I know.”

“My sister had been abducted. I needed help.” His shoulders slumped as he went on. “I still need to save her. In your eyes, I may never be able to right myself, but please let—”

She pursed her lips and nodded slowly, facing down. “I get it—I heard it all,” she said. “You need to hurry.”

He opened his mouth to thank her before she cut him off.

“But don’t think you’re getting off that easily.” She gestured to her neck, patched up and still bloody. “This—this, we’ll chat about. And on that topic, we’ll have an arrangement to discuss your support by our women’s rights movement.”

“Come now, Charlotte,” Elisabeth chided. “Rest for now.” She then directed her attention to Jonathan. “I’ll see what we can do.”

As she returned downstairs, Jonathan was left to stand by himself.

“I hope you find your sister.”

His brows lifted in surprise. “Very kind of you,” he said. “Will you be fine on your own?”

“Oh yes, my friend is coming over anyway. And I’m still mad, however I can grasp how badly you’ve suffered to get here…“ she said. “Mum likes you.” Charlotte rolled her eyes when Jonathan reacted. “But the next time you do something like that, she _will_ eviscerate you.”

 

* * *

 

“Over here,” a Priwen guard said. “Bloodstains stopped at the sewers, and they continue… there!” The sun hung low and lazy, and the tracks glistened. “Todd, you listening?”

“Yeah. Leech blood, obviously that doctor’s.” A man was washing away the rest of the tracks through the streets. Todd swiveled the scope around, trying to make sense of where it led before it was gone.

“Damn. There’s our one luck out.” The other man leaned against the perch and looked down. “Even in this fancy part of town, I don’t see nobody batting an eye to the mess… weird.”

The tip of a red mansion came into view. Todd moved a bit, then refocused. “Huh, there’s that building again—how come we’ve never checked that out?”

“You mean the one I can’t see without that scope?”

“Maybe.”

His partner shrugged. “Beats me. I’ll check the sewers.”

“If you get eaten down there, no one’s going to find your body.”

“Thanks, damn you. Bye.”

“Hey—hey wait I see something,” he called out, but the fall of boots below indicated that he was already gone. “Hmph.”

There was a small gap between the curtains, and inching closer, he caught a glimpse of movement. He brought out a small sheet and pen then waited, propping his arms on the fence.

After some time, the doctor appeared through a window. “Why the hell is he standing in the sun…?”

Todd set down the scope and rubbed at his eyes, realizing how much time had actually passed. _It was already mid-afternoon!_ He turned around. “The doctor—”

_His partner’s still in the sewers!_

Todd scratched a few notes down and packed up hastily, set to move, but not before taking a final look from the scope.

Jonathan had his hand on the glass, sweeping the roads. Over the course of morning, people had begun to walk them. At this point they were empty again.

He told Elisabeth he’d start searching ahead. Reluctantly, she agreed and told him they’d meet later, by the docks. The heat was a mild discomfort, but it barely registered as he exited through the backdoor.

She had said to be careful, that Ascalon was known to achieve their goals by any means.

The mere thoughts angered him—what they could be doing to her. He skimmed around the specifics.

Pavement and walls blurred as he passed, structures growing worn and duller. More than once he had needed to reroute to avoid running into the guards. The alleys and low side of bridges skirted their patrols but also held numerous Skals.

He had taken the chance to sate himself between rests. The beasts would sometimes spew bile and other liquids, even exploding into clouds of rancid green and yellow similar to biological waste, but fouler. He did his best to avoid them and was mostly successful. The pain from stray drops kept him wary, but he managed to gather some, stowing the sample in his pocket.

Clouds formed sheets of shadows, and drizzle came down halfway through the travel. A loose trail of blood led him through the bayside. He looked over to the waves hitting the shore, running along faster.

It was early evening when the rain stopped and he reached the destination of interest. The west side of the docks was barely inhabited, thankfully. Aside from a few men sleeping in their boats, or simply by the streets, the only others he saw were collected in a small area. He had dared to inspect it closer. However, upon seeing a flock of Priwen and not sensing Mary’s presence, he fled.

“The night shelter?” Jonathan muttered, repeating what one of the men had shouted. The scent of blood was watery from the damp atmosphere, and he hated himself for being unable to help anyone inside. _What was the Guard doing?_

Not long after, he came upon another building. Before he could even look through the walls, he heard Mary’s voice, screaming, muffled.

Jonathan walked by the iron railing and found a weakened portion. A black rope coiled around the piece and burst inwards, then he ripped the bar off and held it ready.

Ventilation windows lined the top of one wall, though didn’t reveal much of what was past it. He went closer and frowned. People stood, paced, and idled within the structure, in various states of injury and consciousness.

In a single jump, Jonathan reached the top and passed through. He landed on the heels of his feet and made a dash to Mary’s side, ripping her bonds then her gag. She was pale and her eyes, watery, but she made no sound. The smell of her blood stung at him, and he burned with anger.

A _leech_ leisurely walked up to them, indicated by the blood splattered on his lips. Jonathan met him halfway, running over and bludgeoning his face with enough force he toppled. He did the same for another of her captors by the first, not caring how bent the edge of the bar became.

His jaw stiffened as he lifted the weapon again and caught himself mid-swing. A woman stood in front of him, blood on her mouth as the others, and in patches along her gown. Her eyes were glassy, not unlike the shopkeeper he had mesmerized before.

“Jonathan!” He thought the voice was Mary’s until two cold hands gripped his and pulled the weapon away. It dropped with a resounding echo and he froze, unable to look back at the brutalization he had done.

No words came out.

“You need to leave,” Elisabeth said. “Now!”

His arms were still wet as he carried his sister and leapt out of the windows once more.

 

* * *

 

“Who are they?”

“Nothing good. They came here twice this month,” the old nurse whispered, pulling the other back. “Goswick from the right wing is still waiting. Go on.”

Sterile air tried to hide the scent of blood and waste, but the effect was no better, a washed out, unpleasant odor regardless. Geoffrey’s nose twitched as he passed a coughing man, and he clenched his fists tighter. _How many had that bastard endangered?_

The receptionist didn’t even bother to stop him from climbing the stairs. Two Priwen cadets ran back and stayed by the gates to keep watch.

He barged in with no attempt to hold back. “You had better explain yourself before I knead your throat.”

“Who let you in?” Edgar Swansea turned on his chair, face a mix of irritation and contempt. “Might I remind you whose property you stand on?”

Geoffrey shut the door behind him then pulled out his revolver. He spoke with gritted teeth. “Got mad nerve, you four-eyed rat,” he began. “You’re the cause for the sickness!”

“How dare you accuse—”

The hunter hit him with the gun’s back before he could finish talking, then pulled him by the hem of his coat. “Why did you do it? Whose blood did you use!?”

The frame of Edgar’s eyewear warped, and some of the glass sunk into his cheeks. He remained quiet.

“Don’t think you can slide your way out of this one. If you want to live with your arms and legs intact then fucking speak!” he shouted, throwing Edgar back into his seat.

“I’ll tell you nothing!” he spat out. “Not to you filthy war animals!”

“Won’t admit it?” The hunter picked up Edgar’s plaque and inspected it. “So unwilling to tarnish your medical career, yet you show no _remorse_ to the citizens you’re killing.” He slammed the ornament to the floor and scoffed. “That makes two of us then, only they don’t make trophies for that kind of thing.”

The doctor visibly winced, mouth agape and primed to throw a fit. “Devil’s spawn!”

“You’ll think me worse than the Devil once we gather more proof…”

A loud clatter of feet made its way from below them, then to the stairs, before stopping abruptly behind the door. “Edgar?”

Geoffrey crossed his arms as the older doctor answered, “Yes.”

“And McCullum?”

“Just come in, Jonathan.”

Geoffrey thought the smell was his imagination. The leech being covered in blood told otherwise. But he held his tongue, seeing him visibly strained from whatever just happened.

Jonathan turned to the hunter, then to Edgar. He made a questioning look but otherwise ignored the obvious quarrel. “I brought in a patient. I asked the nurses but there appears to be no space.”

“Ah, well to be honest, we did reserve a room for you, in case you changed your mind on our offer,” he said. “You can let them use it for now.”

“Thank you.” Jonathan went to grab the door handle. “I do have more to tell you, Edgar, in private perhaps.”

“Really now?” he said. “Why don’t you have McCullum carry the patient to the room then? Keep them company for a while?”

Geoffrey sighed, as Jonathan faced him again and apologized for earlier morning. “Tell me where he is.”

“Mary, is just by the entrance,” he replied, earning a surprised and apologetic look from the other. “I trust you to be gentle.”

With a snort the man left, and Jonathan continued. He sat down at the table and spoke after a short delay. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, pulling his glasses off slowly. “But since you want to know, I was in the middle of documenting my research, and he practically threw himself on me.”

“Why?” Jonathan dug through the insides of his coat. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Hmm, no. The maniac would die sooner being mauled by a pack of Skals.”

“Edgar, that is no way to be talking about others, no matter their… _pedigree_.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The older doctor blew air through his nose, then propped his elbows on the desk, holding his head between his palms. “So what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“The epidemic,” he said simply. “And I’ve gathered samples. We can figure this out, what caused it—how it all happened!”

 

* * *

 

Mary’s eyes fluttered open and darted around, expecting the worst. For a moment, she was still in the warehouse, but there were no other civilians, no blood, no predators. The smell of the air was dissimilar, but not altogether pleasant. Embellished flowers and vines ran along the white ceiling. She followed it with her eyes, before another pair met her own. They looked like sleep had evaded them for nights on end.

Her body tensed as she tried to recall what had happened. She had been tied down and watched a man break their minds. Then, someone came to rescue her.

“Is it you, who saved me?” she asked the man sitting in the chair. His face was gruff and unkempt, though he didn’t seem the least bothered.

He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“I see.” Mary got into a better position to see her surroundings. “Lots of books and whatnot. Reminds me of my brother’s study.”

“Dr. Reid?”

“Yes—and I remember you now! You were with Jonathan that night, when he visited to inform us of his plans.”

“You remember me as the man who took your brother away then?”

She scrunched her nose, offering a half shrug.

“In that case, I’ll leave the welcome party and interrogation to him.”

Her sides couldn’t stretch with the wrapping on the wounds, not that she planned on doing so. A clock hung on the far side of the room, the right half of covered by a pillar. _It was between eight, and half past eight then,_ but she’d never know for sure until the hand appeared on the other side.

Mary considered striking up conversation, for one, to ask about vampires and if he indeed hunted them, but he merely turned his body away when he realized she’d awoken. So she didn’t, and she regretted that when too long passed.

A short knock announced her brother entering, followed by the other man immediately leaving. “Thank God you’re alright…” he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

“I’m surrounded with religious fanatics. I fear they may even bring me to church...”

“Ah…” She pushed herself up to stand, and Jonathan rushed over so she wouldn’t need to. “I see you’re still a gentleman, what with the _spillage_ on your—” Not another word was said.

He sat down on the chair and sighed. “I didn’t mean for what I did. They weren’t even the ones who took you.”

They were closer now, more than ever in such a long time, yet all the stories and grievances she had wanted to share were gone.

Mary filled in the silence with soft humming, as she turned her head over. There weren’t windows for her to watch from, all boarded up and much too far.

“I will fix everything,” Jonathan said after a while, quiet enough to doubt it was meant for her. When her brother stood again and walked to the bed, it was quarter past eight. “I talked to Edgar, the administrator of Pembroke. He said he’d personally take care of you.” The door took his attention. “I think McCullum’s getting impatient.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry for taking so long, for not even comforting you after today. I want to—we both need closure—but it’s not something I can do right now.” He turned away, said farewell, and exited.

She didn’t know why they came for her, nor why Jonathan was suddenly the target of London’s underground affairs. But if there was something Mary was sure of, it was that he was disgusted with himself. He always left before he could show too much emotion.

Maybe he thought he was strong that way. That no one would know.

_As if._

 

* * *

 

The walk back to Priwen was uneventful, save for a few Skals that found interest in the four men. The three guards dealt with the beasts quickly. One of the cadets asked why Jonathan had been scooping the grime off their bodies. He replied with a thorough explanation of the preparation and analysis of said sample, but when the man’s face grew ever more contorted from confusion, he summarized it with ‘science’, and he seemed satisfied enough.

As soon as the gates opened, the two younger men ran off towards the barracks, leaving Geoffrey to walk back with Jonathan, who apologized again, but was simply waved off like it was nothing.

They were up the stairs when he spoke up. “So what did she say? Does she know who’d done it?”

“I don’t think—I didn’t ask her. If you’re willing to talk a while, I can explain it to you.” The doctor kept walking. “Just to you for now,” he quickly added.

“Not now.”

Jonathan nodded then turned the other direction, presumably to continue his research.

He wandered the archives a while, stopping by the empty common rooms, conference chambers, the halls. Too many problems had surfaced recently—the Skals, the flu, the kidnaps, the doctor. And that other damned doctor.

Geoffrey put a hand to his aching head, then tightened the red scarf he always wore, looking out the windows. The trees had begun to shed red and yellow, laying into messy patches on the tiles. Some of the men kicked them up, and perhaps the others wished they could be so at ease.

He sighed.

_Tomorrow perhaps._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did my writing style change? I feel like I'm using a lot of Jonathan did X, Geoffrey said, etc, and too much dialogue. Again, my primary reader said he still likes it, and he doesn't think it's changed that much, but I'd like to ask you guys too, if you could.


	10. Somewhere in October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth of October, he signs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Revamp Progress] *Dates are my schedule for editing but are not confirmed for completion.*  
> Chapter 1: Done | Chapter 2: Done | Chapter 3: Done | Chapter 4: Done | Chapter 5: Done | Chapter 6: Done | Chapter 7: Postponed | Chapter 8: Postponed | Chapter 9: Postponed
> 
> It's been over 3 months since the last chapter. This is the start of a short 2 or 3 part arc, and it was obviously not supposed to take this long. Schedule's been tied up and it's been rough for me, but I won't waste too much time writing excuses. Instead, I'm hoping I can put out the 11th chapter by next week.
> 
> I'm still hoping to revisit chapters 7-9 and correct some timeline issues in the other chapters as well. I took some creative freedom in some scenarios (Jonathan's father left not when he was a child but much later, for example) and I'll consider righting those if they don't cause too much conflict with the future (for instance, the "snow" in the ending of the previous chapter. "It had begun to snow, and the men seemed to be enjoying themselves." will become "The trees had begun to shed red and yellow, laying into messy patches on the tiles. Some of the men kicked them up, and perhaps the others wished they could be so at ease."). Please don't kill me.
> 
> This is also the most heavily edited chapter so far. The one premise of the next chapter was simple enough, but too coincidental for everything that happened. I needed to cut down a lot of things that honestly made me suffer every time I re-read them. More than half of the content was cut including Todd being there, more talk about the Disaster, etc.
> 
> Edit: Minor changes to term

Sitting sprawled on a chair, Jonathan extended an arm to catch the ceiling light. Outside the window came the sounds of fellow _nocturnals_ , hungry for blood and armed to the teeth. Last he’d heard, the Guard uncovered a hotspot of sorts. He had intended to distance himself from the matter, but Priwen made no move to drag him into it anyway.

Time passed too slow for any progress, yet too quick for what night light he had left. Waking his hands from a ten minutes rest, he yawned, then resumed work.

Three petri dish samples took up their own space on the desk. The clock read midnight precisely, meaning they were just less than an hour old since gathered. He had prepared a set of slides earlier, and began exploring under tired eyes, hands swiveling knobs to reveal a Skal's blood, bile, and frankly inept cross-section of its brain.

 _Examination revealed_ —He sighed— _no significant changes aside from degradation and rot._ It was strength to the fact that Skals were more than animated corpses—something clouded their minds—but not at all helpful to finding the correlation of the epidemic and its nature. At any rate, he could be endangering their population in Whitechapel and nothing more.

Jonathan let the pen down in time to the door’s familiar creak. He needed a new perspective. It came in the form of McCullum letting himself in.

“Again with that?” the irish voice asked.

He nodded with his back still turned. “You arrived at a suitable time. Any later and I’d have pulled my hair from fruitless endeavors…” He retrieved a lancet from the carton then set it by a box of glass slides.

The hunter took one look, narrowed his eyes, then widened them upon sighting the needle on the packaging, tipping his head down as he spoke. “You're not serious.”

“I am,” he said, baring his teeth boredly. “But trust what I’ll do with your blood is much less exciting. You can stand to lose a few drops.” Pulling another chair towards his own, he motioned the man to sit.

Geoffrey complied with a grumble as his left hand was moved to the table and wiped down with disinfectant. “So what _will_ you do with it?”

A thin layer of grime had built up in the ridges. “Several things.” Initially choosing to clean one finger, he continued with the rest for good measure. “First, I can compare the appearance with the Skal’s—I suppose how they might react to certain substances—then perhaps… if there’s any difference in agglutination? Time permits more tests.”

He uncovered the sharp end of the lancet and told asked him to relax.

Geoffrey took the room in, a now seemingly exhaustive lair of glass and metal, a greenhouse without the green, yet smelled nothing like it.

A wad of cotton replaced the doctor's hands. “That's it? Had me tensed up for nothing—Gotten papercuts that bled worse.” Geoffrey held the white ball between his fingers like asked. “Could've used the rash on Randall's arm for all that effort.”

“An interesting suggestion,” he replied flatly. “A diagnosis would've required a larger amount, but this will suffice.”

“Well it better.” He eyed the rest of the lab. “I have a while to spare. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know? Make you feel smart after all these supposed failures,” he gibed, and evoked a snort from the other.

Tubes ran down a large glass flask, into another tube, into outlets for… _whatever they were for._ He turned in his seat as Jonathan, who spouted facts about the equipment and things he'd done, continued.

The blood smear could show something he'd overlooked, differentiate it superficially and whatnot.

And the weird bulbous glass thing, apparently, was as valuable as his liver. _Possibly more_ , according to the smartass, _considering the nasty things he had done with it._

Before he could return fire, the doctor had already righted himself, claiming it in jest—and that his liver would be worthless in the black market right now anyway—in an all but unthreatening manner. Geoffrey let it slide.

“Suppose I do require you more blood, how would a pint sound?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Not now in any case. About time I got to my rounds.” He stretched his shoulders before eventually leaving with a short ‘bye’.

To the back of the room, a gray rat stood on two feet, gripping the cage’s walls as if complaining to be let free. Jonathan had caught it in worry of needing sustenance later on. But he was not even hungry now, only bemused.

He redirected his attention to the station. It was all too secretive. _Immortals’ blood._ Of what use were any discoveries if he couldn't tell anyone? Edgar, of course, would be his sole confidant, but Jonathan doubted even the eager administrator could come off as anything less than insane should they relay the findings. It was a matter of finding a cure, between the Skals and influenza, _but then what?_ After the war blows over, after the epidemic ends, where could he go? Surely there was a cure to his condition too.

Things didn't add up. The plague resurfaces from yesteryear as the worst London's seen for ages, then the proliferation of Skals that's somehow escaped the minds of nearly everyone—even his! Could the Skals have been spreading the same way the Influenza does? Why were the symptoms of each mutual?

_Fatigue, fever, aggression, viral tendencies._

_The siren's call…_ The demon from his dreams did not help. A series of events this catastrophic could only have been set up. There was another factor, otherwise it should not have bothered him so much—knowing he did not know. _So many possibilities. So many loose-ends…_ His mind was scattered, torn on everything and by everything, like the fiery leaves separated only by the slats in the casement window he found himself staring out of again.

 _Antagonistic Ekons and their captives, McCullum interrogating Edgar, the murdered patient, the Night Shelter…_ Gusts from a yet dark outside were silenced by hurried knocks that clamored from the door. Jonathan waited, noting the tangible shift in the air.

A man in casual attire of browns and reds entered in a hurry. He met the doctor's gaze and sighed as he found a chair to sit on. “Good evening, Reid.”

He could hear the shiver in the man's breaths. Jonathan was aware of the goosebumps on his own bare forearms, and he fought the urge to act on it. It was only when the other cleared his throat that he realized he'd been staring.

“Good evening. To what do I owe this nightly visit?”

“I'll get to that. There's no one around right? They should be amassing at the field… prelude for another great hunt.” He tipped his head down and hunched forward to breathe.

Past the walls were empty halls, and even further, down to the ground, were the mentioned guards in anxious waiting. “You're correct. Are you cold?” He picked out an extra coat and held it out.

“Can I trust you to keep quiet about something?”

“I don't believe so.”

The man raised his head to see Jonathan still holding his arm out.

“—I know where this is going and I don't have much time to play accomplice.”

“Spare me the trouble of convincing you doc.” His eyes darkened. “I'm not sure I have much time either.”

“You misunderstood me. Of course I want to help, but you can't expect me to promise silence without knowing what you found yourself in.” He returned the coat to the edge of the bed, and stood to view the city outside. “Can you start from the beginning? What happened exactly? Who'd you fight?”

“No, no, it wasn't just a fight. That's not the point,” he blurted out. “We'd been assigned—me and my partner Todd—to track you last time. Followed your tracks down a road in West End. That was half our job, but I wanted to retrace back to the sewers—” He paused. “—You already know it! _We_ were the ones following _you!_ ”

Jonathan didn't answer.

“You felt it too then. I see it in your eyes!” he said with hushed accusation. “A Disaster, hidden in the labyrinth of pipeways and tunnels. God knows the implication of this.”

“What is this Disaster you're referring to? And what does it matter that I did? How does this involve me?”

“It could very well be the cause of the plague, or the Skal epidemic, Reid,” he said. “And if not, it could further either of them. If a leech like that is out there… you're already involved.”

He tried to remember. The scars on his back had still been fresh and he'd barely been able to think past getting to Mary. Old Bridget, the leader of the underground Skals, had accommodated his questions as if eager to please him. Or had she been trying to get him to leave? The feeling had been unsettling as a sour note back in the sewers. He found himself fixated on the man across from him once more.

Silence hung like a guillotine over them. The man spoke softly. “I don't know what pushed me. I couldn't resist—overheard things, saw nasty stuff. Barely got out with my life, but if it wasn't worth doing… Now, I reckon we’ve got a shot to end this.”

“I've no miracles.”

“I know. I’m already damned, but that bastard at Pembroke's gonna get what what he deserves.”

If it were possible, Jonathan felt his heart skip a beat.

“Beast wore a hospital gown, looked like an old lady at first. The whole area was rank, especially there.” He continued, “So much rage in a breath's worth of words.”

“Is this why McCullum was at Pembroke? You supposed Edgar had something to do with this?”

“Aye,” he said, then continued. “She jumped me. Asked if I was sent by the ‘good doctor', and that he ought to get a taste of his own medicine.”

Jonathan sat down. “Will you run?”

“No, too late to consider… Doc, my bones hurt like my body’s giving out. Isn’t the first time. I’ve broken myself in more ways than you can count on your hands.” He pulled a long, crooked key from his side pocket and gripped it tight. “How old do you think I am?”

The doctor leaned in with a questioning look. “Hmm… twenty five?”

“Close enough, good on you. I don't look it, yeah?”

“No.”

He exhaled deep. “Point is, people like me think boldly. That goes double for McCullum—poor sod thinks himself invincible, not that much has proven him wrong though.” He bit his lip and looked down. “Not in a bad way. We need someone like that. Every now and then a champion arrives, great, fierce, could send grandmothers to a death march.” He snorted. “He's going to get people killed, myself included were I in any shape to fight.”

Jonathan eyed the key.

“Main archives. If you mean to help me, help us, then it's your chance.”

“Are you implying McCullum will fail?”

“It won't be a clean fight but we'll win.” He screwed his eyes tight while he spoke. “I wish it were that simple. Everyone's felt it, no one acknowledges it. A chain of events like these in London's most desperate times? No coincidence. Something's pulling the strings, it’s only clearer now to me.”

He nodded then faced the man. “She's as much a pawn as we are…” The black eye had long healed and seemed the least of his troubles now. “Might I take some samples?”

⁂

The heaviness of Jonathan’s arm scratching lines across paper assured him that it was already morning. He was alone in the room. His visitor had no intention to return, and when asked of his plans merely claimed it didn’t matter.

Skals exhibited severe genetic mutations, to the point that their tissues barely resemble their counterparts, let alone function. It took little more than chromosomal breakages to develop irreversible syndromes. Would it even be taxonomically correct to call them simple mutants anymore? It seemed that all mechanisms in their bodies that acted to prevent proliferation of the malignant tissues failed. What happened to the Skals was extreme, and was without a doubt happening to the sick guard.

As many as the documents the man had brought were, they did not add much. A disaster is horribly deformed like the Skals, yet to a greater extent. Its form is twisted, erupting into layers of bone and sinew, and their cavities are engorged by pus and waste. _Harbingers of death, with the looks to match._

He ruffled the papers around.

All these records, methods to dispatch them, problematics, yet they all missed one point—how they came into existence. Perhaps a secret lost through time or some purge, or like all else so far, something hidden in plain sight.

 _The fourth of October,_ he signs. The months grew longer and colder, epidemic showing no signs of letting up. The days were fragile and the nights were tired. Despite the murders, the fights, and the general hostility, it was still, like a held breath before an outburst.

Hopefully, he would not need to claw away at the mystery of London’s shadows alone.


	11. Burning Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days after Jonathan's been informed of the proceedings, he's been making rounds to aid the sewer Skals, but Old Bridget refuses to leave her people behind. Meanwhile, the Guard of Priwen just about commences the great hunt, locking down districts and wiping the pests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if there'll be a third chapter to this arc. We'll see. Side note: finals is over, so I'll hopefully have more time to update. Side note 2: This chapter is on the revision list, but hopefully you can enjoy it as it is. Side note 3: I hate that italics break when transferring between word editors...

Inasmuch as the masses of vermin that ran underground were, storming in with less than a small division would, in other words, block the stream. The sewer tunnels were cramped and musty, curving into the sides and worsening traction. Blood, bodies laid strewn, cuts in the walls. Signs of infestation—and them getting closer. It was only past the entrance when Geoffrey had sensed the beasts, yet several minutes into knee-high waste-filled drainages later, they had encountered none.  
  
One of the eight men, Casey, pulled his face mask down and spoke. "Some nest they've built down here.”  
  
Boots scraping against bricks was the only response, other than a faint 'yeah' from one side. They wore heavy garments that reached to their ankles, patched where exposed and double-layered where possible.  
  
"Hmm," he began again. "Wonder how far it goes, what with all the turns—"  
  
"—And the lack of resistance?" another, hoarse voice interrupted. "Think it’s some trick to one-up us? An ambush?"  
  
The bricks gradually grew discolored as they headed deeper. Their footsteps became muted in the presence of their thoughts and the flicker of torchlight.  
  
A low groan resounded from up ahead. Geoffrey sidled to the front of the party and led with his sword. The sounds had stopped but he could sense them now, closer and moving— _away_ ?  
  
"Tsk." He sheathed the weapon then hurried on with the rest following. The sewer lines stretched for a good while, before giving way to a mineshaft that intersected through a hole in the wall.  
  
The first one was a bedraggled man on its knees facing a corner. It turned cloudy irises to their feet then began to claw at the walls and wail. Geoffrey thrust a dagger into its head once and again before kicking it off.

The others moved past as he inspected it further. _A blind Skal, in these depths._ He raised his head up to look around, then back down as he clicked his tongue. How it survived for so long was not beyond him, but the fact such a cluster existed right under their noses was. It was evident that an old vampire or body was behind this. _If Priwen could catch them—wring out whatever else they knew, how many more of these existed under the murk..._

“Down there!”

“Right behind you,” he replied, watching the men drop down a breach in sloshes. As he rose, a small rusty chain latched onto his fingers, and he tugged it free. Two bent metal plates— _1811,_ name rubbed off. He narrowed his eyes, then placed the silver in its hand before joining the others.

⁂

Spittle and blood jetted past Geoffrey’s face as he pushed his sword higher. The sounds of chambers unloaded filled the gaps between Skal screams. When the leech had stilled, he pulled back and went on to the next, cleaving its arm off before another blade came down to split its torso. Then he killed the next, and the next, and the next.

One Skal swiped at the blade impaling its throat, eyes wide and moving its lips soundlessly. Its pupils darted around, followed by a bolt through them. As Geoffrey tilted his blade down and let it slide off, for a moment, behind its falling body, he caught a glimpse of blue and a trail of smoke.

“They're running deeper in!” he barked. “Gas the byways, drive them to the Night Shelter! We corner them with Randall’s unit there!” The scuttling of feet slowly grew distant. He turned his head back. _They could catch up_. He took two steps forward and stopped when he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulders.

Casey nodded once, winked through the obscurity of orange goggles, then set into motion once more. A loose trail of watery red, brown, and yellow slowly thickened as they closed the gap to their target. Skals were tossed to the sides in broken piles. Dust stirred with every step, but was far shrouded by the rancidity in the air.

 _Harriet Jones, former patient at Pembroke, and by the four-eyed piece of shite doctor, victim, vermin, and Disaster._ They'd planned for nights. It was still a gamble. The streets were empty, adjacent exits covered. If all things pulled through, it would be a clean extermination—Disaster killed, East sewers cleared, no casualties. One step closer to containing the epidemic and ridding London of those abominations.

The tunnel forked. They took the left. A quiet blast echoed from the other path, momentarily rising to a crescendo of snare drum gunshots, before fading into a low rumble.

Sweat ran down Geoffrey's body in the sweltering dark. The little air he heaved through his scarf was stale, yet pulling it off would only make things worse. He slowed the pace to a walk as their tunnel joined a larger one, flooded by the sounds of retching.

Geoffrey loaded his arm-bound crossbow, and Casey, a torch in one hand, sword in the other. She spoke to them long before they spotted her.

“Dear me… poor Harriet's gone and made a mess again hasn't she? Attracted the flies.”

Casey swung the light to the voice. The floor shimmered in patches. Puddles fizzed and popped around them.

“Harriet the _hag_ . _Stupid_ Harriet. _Cack-handed_ Harriet.” She retched again. “Curse the lot of them,” she said bitterly.

The light exposed a wrinkled foot at the edge of the shadows. Casey quickly pulled the torch up. Frail and malformed had become too clean a description. The leech's body was grotesque in every way, one arm elephantine, face butchered, dress corroded to reveal layers of sinew pulled taut from the strain.

“So, stupid Harriet,” Geoffrey said, blade glinting orange. “Or would you prefer another name as we rip you ugly piece by ugly piece?”

Casey, who had been closer, ducked as her dominant arm swung over his head and into the wall, leaving a depression. The light flickered and Geoffrey leaned into a clean slash from the ground up to her hand.

Harriet shrieked as she slammed him into the wall with the bloody stump. Casey singed the limb and slung shimmering yellow into her eyes. She recoiled, pulling at her face with the smaller arm.

He grabbed Geoffrey's hand and stood him up. The leech gagged. They dove away, backs to the tunnel walls, hellish fluid landing between them. They alternated shots and bolts before Geoffrey closed in for another mighty swing, this time to bisect the arm from above. It struck deep and he left it in, stepping back from Harriet's reach and aiming another bolt to the head.

She raised her large arm as a shield. Blood oozed where the sword had impaled and met constricting muscles, clearly painful as evident by the snarling and clenched teeth.

“Slaughter! Murderers!” she shouted, punching Casey in the gut, then protracting to launch him into the ceiling. He fell with a thud and rolled over to the left, narrowly missed by an ear-hammering smash.

He groaned and watched through the webs blurring his vision, Geoffrey running at her.

Geoffrey evaded the first strike to his head, jumped the next that swept from under, then let out a frustrated shout as it pinned him by the torso and shoved him into the wall again, locking his arms and crossbow in place, bones protesting against the fracturing crush.

He breathed in quick spurts. Time seemed to slow, and the tunnel darkened, stretching forwards, twisting into itself. With a flash and a bang, he was dropped.

To his right, the crossbow was in pieces, some of it stuck into his forearm. He looked ahead—swerved away from the rocketing arm—then as it stopped, reached out.

Grasping the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, he flew forward as she pulled back. He jerked it down, eliciting a blood-curdling scream, then once more to form a rive between its shoulder and arm.

He removed the sword and stepped back from the now kneeling Harriet. “Tell us what you know.”

She made a face of delirious anger before suddenly dropping it. “You know, I just love gossip. The dirty kind, the ones that involve backstabbing, spite—”

Geoffrey thrust the blade back in and spoke through his teeth. “Quit the crap. What made you!? Who else is here?”

“It's just us. A one-on-one, kinslayer like yourself, and poor Harriet. You really know how to make an old woman feel special—”

He pushed the blade deeper. It laughed lowly and wetly.

“Struck a nerve?” Harriet taunted. “Oh I remember now, she’s here, the pig rolling around in her own mud making schemes. She's here with that lovely doctor with raven hair.” When the man shifted uncertainly, she grinned. “So much fun, I'm sure you agree, what with all the things he said about you.”

Once more, he took the blade out and stepped backwards, into Casey who placed a hand on his back— _as if that ever calmed him._

“You won't find them. The slyest ones are hardest to,” she said. “And between you and me, the little fucker's slippery.”

He growled, touching the tip of his sword to her head.

“But if you do, do tell him I'd like to hear more.” The hag made a dramatic pout, staring up with beady eyes. “Ivan was it? _Ivan_ McCullum,” she practically whispered.

Specks of red developed on his goggles and slowly filled.

“Enough! That's enough!” Casey's voice rang out. “Stop it—she's just riling you up man!”

 _How did she know about Ian then!?_ His sword lay in the mangled and overflowing body of Harriet Jones. There was a short feeling of regret, but he did not _need_ it.

He recounted the bullets he had and felt for the dagger hidden in his pocket, then ran.

“Geoffrey!” the captain shouted to no success. “You—you didn't forget what happened last time!” And his words slowed the man down to a halt. “You're going to think it over—”

 _That was before. Matthias did not deserve to die. But this time, he would not fail_. He took another step.

“—And then you're going to keep going,” Casey said. His voice was quiet, far… clear.

A heavy clang landed some few feet behind him.

“Take it, and come back you stupid bastard!” Casey roared. “You need help, you holler. We'll be here.”

The tunnels were dark once more, but his eyes had always been fast to adapt. Still, he opted to put the unlit torch from his coat to use.

Here he was, chasing shadows he did not see, his own following behind as his only companion. The light distracted him from the only thought he had.

He did not intend to fail. He wouldn't.

 _But exactly what he would not fail,_ he was unsure.

⁂

The tunnel had not run far. He had tried to dismiss the idea—Harriet was lying. There would be no deception or trickery, no doctor conniving against the men who’d turned from all that went down because of him.

Strips of moonlight shone down through manholes. Movement caught his eye, and he fired into the dark.

A feminine voice squealed. He dashed after it, finding a Skal looking back wide-eyed, fallen to its knees, black laced veil bloody and torn.

He held Casey's sword up as he put things together. _This was what had led those damned leeches for so long?_ Its eyes were lusterless, yet intense with emotions of grief, duty, loss.

“Is there anyone else?” he asked. “Cooperate unless you want a slow death. I know you can talk—you're not as dumb as the others.”

No response.

Geoffrey tch'd then kicked it hard. When that didn't work, he walked over to finish it off.

He brought his blade down, and blue gleamed as it was deflectef upward. Jonathan's claws dissipated as the men sized each other up, one more livid than the other.

“What's the meaning of this?” the hunter's voice rumbled.

“McCullum, listen, these Skals are not your enemies,” the vampire said carefully, taking a step back to glance at the frightened leech. “Turn around this once.”

His shirt was smudged, with tattered sleeves. Beyond that, a faint light cast a soft glow to his frame, and his hunched figure portrayed a woeful hero, _but that he wasn’t_ . “Do you see yourself right, here, in this city of snakes?” Geoffrey asked. “There are two beasts in this room. One of them is on the floor, and the other is _me_. Don't put yourself between us.”

“Please! Geoffrey,” he said. The hunter felt his fingers twitch. “Look at this closely. She's a survivor from centuries past. They're peaceful Skals under the same precepts I am, only more secluded. And… and Harriet Jones—”

“—is already dead,” he interrupted. “They're waste, living off the dead and animals, spreading diseases harmless to them but devastating to us humans, forming clusters of ‘secluded colonies’ until inevitably losing control, just for us to clean up.” He continued, “I had given you the chance to prove yourself—consider that a rare kindness. Now I’m giving you the chance to disengage, forget you’d plotted against us, evacuating the vermin—failing!—and this.”

Jonathan knit his brows together and shared a quiet gaze. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he muttered then prompted the Skal to run with another glance.

Geoffrey jerked out his ivory revolver. The other summoned a thin barrier of blood.

The bullet stuttered through the red and into Jonathan’s abdomen, coming in with a flare that illuminated his wide eyes. He shouted, clutching the wound and looking up through hunched form, then vanishing into mist several feet behind.

Geoffrey huffed, drawing the sword back from the spot Jonathan had been in, then ran in for another strike.

Metal grated, screeched, and twinkled under the bleeding light. Jonathan matched his pace, deflecting the flurry of blows with the sword he’d been issued prior. He let out a half-stifled yell, finding his hand bloody, and managed two blinks before dashing away once more from the incoming lunge.

Geoffrey followed quick, slashing again before the other could recover. Jonathan diverted it to the side, blade bending from the sheer force of the heavier weapon. The last footfall indicated they were now alone.

“What was your plan? To sacrifice yourself, betray the entirety of the Guard of Priwen, for these sorry excuses!?” he shouted, slamming down harder, forcing Jonathan to block again until it broke. “We can only turn a blind eye so much.”

“Tell me I’m wrong, McCullum!” his voice boomed. “Since my rebirth, I’ve faced all but torment, in the quiet nights where I lie awake with knowledge my life’s done and gone, in the nights where London collectively tries to kill me,” he spat out. “Tell me I’m not doing this for the greater good as I always have!”

“You’re wrong, and goddamn stupid,” he replied, advancing with his sword. “You don’t know the stakes we’re dealing with!”

“Harriet Jones was a carrier of the Skal epidemic. It operates similarly to the Spanish flu, could even be a catalyst,” he stated. “What did the rest of these Skals have to do with your crazed conquest? They’ve helped me when you could not. And what of Edgar? Clearly we cannot agree on any philosophy, but that is your shtick, not mine, to antagonize each and every thing that crosses you!”

“That damned rat has two feet planted in the roots of it all! Should you get in the way of that ordeal as well, then I’ll consider this a good use of time.”

Jonathan’s demeanor changed, as expected, like that of a cornered animal, or a front-line soldier solidly marching into the enemy’s jaws. “I will not stand down.”

“Then this will be your end. En garde.”

Red droplets coalesced around hands into claws. The clash rang loud. Geoffrey aimed at the blurring figure. Bullets dug into the walls. Others embedded themselves in cold flesh. He swung his sword, cutting deep.

Jonathan cried out from the laceration on his leg, parrying another strike and sending a mass of red towards him, landing far. The floor began to erupt into rolling shadows. Black geysers plumed into the low ceiling, clouding the area.

The hunter inhaled the brine of the bay outside, swiveling right. The mist scattered where the leech manifested, revealing his frustration at the missed attack before disappearing again.

 _Steps to the right, then nothing._ Metal connected twice in succession. There was a controlled power behind the doctor’s blows, just enough to keep him on defense, but without the carried weight that accompanied intentions to kill.

 _To the left,_ he blocked again. Over the ages, one could see the patterns in their movements and thoughts. He was no exception.

Mist propelled into Geoffrey's face. His boots scratched on the floor as he quickly reeled to the side. A sharpened trail of blood sailed past an inch from his nose, filling his vision with red before leaving it with the clarity of the tunnels once again.

Jonathan threw the worn blade aside, advancing with irregular strides, claws out, the injury on his right leg already clotted. Like before, mindless or not, he always imposed them.

_He was in the right here._

The doctor moved with ridiculous speed, tearing through Geoffrey's left shoulder before he could react, followed by pulling downwards, eliciting a yell.

Geoffrey wrestled him away with bared teeth. It hadn't gone deep, but hell if it didn't hurt. Peculiarly, the doctor's mouth was bloody, back rising and sinking with the  semblance of breaths taken. They locked eyes. _Was it instinct? Ruth?_ In that moment, he ran up to him.

Jonathan evaded backwards, as predicted, and the hunter continued, past the body of smoke, driving the sword deep into his chest then twisting. He reached out and scratched the other's cheek before dislodging himself and falling to a knee.

Geoffrey walked slowly and he could imagine the doctor shrinking with every step. It was a pity to have such talents wasted. _Arms, healer, comrade_ . _Perhaps._ He put the gun up to his head.

Jonathan braced himself for it, but the bullet never came.

⁂

Someone was growling some ways from him. _No_ , _nearer_ , as if it were right in his ear. _There_ . A graying man reached in through the bars, biting the air. The gate drain had been closed. Aside from the Skal, there was nothing else. Blood padded the floor, still wet, from the moisture most likely. _Or maybe it hadn't been that long._ Faintly but surely, he heard gunfire. He wasn't crazy, not yet at least, though he considered that anyone with more knowing than the average man would be considered that.

He killed the Skal, broke the lock on the gate, then drank from it. The sewer emptied out somewhere by a river, _the Thames?_ Clouds obscured the moon, _hmm, no._ He made his way up to the streets then up onto a tall building. Far, far away, fire bloomed like spring flowers, dusting the sky with billowing smoke that transitioned into the black, starless London. Waves of heat washed over his skin but he sat there for a while, looking for evidence of their cause.

He knew the answer before he saw the ant-sized men in browns and reds, but he wanted to be sure. Instinct had told him to fight back. He had still some power left, enough to incapacitate the man, maybe take him down with him. _But if he had, he wouldn't be enjoying the view._ He would have burnt down bridges instead. For the first time, he thought on calling his creator for a sign. Harriet was dead, Priwen was executing the great hunt to purge the leeches and the plague along with it. _Could it end there and then?_ He didn't need an answer, though it wasn't as if he got one. Before he awoke, he had dreamt again, where the earth seemed to swallow him and he felt the sharply distinct laughter in the belly of the beast.

This year's October was surprisingly cold. Dark fuzzy flakes began to fall, and the smell of char finally caught up to him. It was a sight to behold where everything appeared so small, and he, so big, with red looming on the horizon before it would soon fill the sky, failing to ignite the ashes that would linger for a while unlike the stars that didn't.

He had yet so much to accomplish. The events of tonight proved that the solutions were not really within his reach. The heat was replaced by tingling, then if he didn't leave, searing pain. He had nowhere to go, so he stayed a while longer.

Jonathan Reid allowed himself that much.

 


	12. What we Lost, What we Gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epidemic progresses. Jonathan needs help. Perhaps help finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly less than a month. It's a short chapter (shies below 3k words) but it took some time because I'm in the process of finalizing the story's ending. Yes, I wasn't sure about it, and I'm not 100% with it now, but I'm much closer. I may change a certain interaction at the end, though I like the way I did this chapter. If you agree, please do say so. If you don't, well, I'll try my best to work on it. 
> 
> Last chapter of this arc. The next ones will probably either separated into 3 long ones or 6 short ones.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for spelling Elisabeth as Elizabeth for like, more than half a year.

Making sure there would be no witnesses, Jonathan leaped, descending from the perch to some hundred feet below, past awnings and overhangs that decorated the West End’s gaudy architectures. Long past the amazement to his capabilities, the thoughts in his mind were singular—find Elisabeth. If luck were any bit on his side, she’d bear good news regarding the hostage situation prior, about Ascalon or whichever group his sister’s captor belonged to. It was a matter he believed the Guard would deal with in due time, but he had his own questions, and a vengeance. He tapped fingers to the side of his head as he walked. _The Disaster, mutations, the implications of vampirism,_ he needed to consult Edgar next.

A few parlors shied to the edge of the streets, some bakeries, knick knack shops. Not a soul peeked through the windows above, no lights that would announce early risers going about their mid-nightly agenda, nor bumps caused by tipsy folks finding their way home.

Down another lane, four men in uniforms he could distinguish from a mile away wandered. In the sewers, the leader of Priwen had spared him, but whether or not the goons were issued a kill order was yet to be known.

Upon sighting them, Jonathan began the other direction, and upon them sighting him, hurried a little faster. He played it on his anxiety, but they were in every corner of the city. Forced back off the ground, he retreated to scaffolds surrounding a community theater.

The platform creaked, teetering. It took him some time to discern the noise from within the large red building it held onto. Jonathan leaned in close, one hand on the cable and one to balance himself on the cold cement. Color fled his vision as he focused on the creatures below. _Skals_ , their familiar growling, _and…?_ He leaned in closer, staring suddenly at cobble as the scaffold pulled back from under.

He let out a surprised yell, gripping the flimsy rope as it collided back into the building. The sound drew attention from several of the patrols who were now investigating the noise, and the rays of dawn began to slither across the rooftops, so he refocused, sensing such strong virulence it made him pull back instinctively.

A bolt loosed to his right signaled it was time to leave. Jonathan sprung onto the side of a low roof. The shingles shifted unsteadily as he climbed to the top, getting his bearings and looking for the quickest route to the Lady's manor. Glad to find he was not far, he slid down the other side and began the course.

From the trek he gathered two things—the men of Priwen were indeed everywhere, and chaos was erupting in the streets, not just the Skals, but creatures large and small, hairy and boney. If they were not so busy with the influx of leeches, he would’ve had trouble getting through unnoticed. A part of him commended the guard for anticipating the part Mrs. Jones had in this.

 

⁂

 

 _Curtains shut, door closed, safe. Not a moment too soon._ The Lady looked with those calculating green eyes, curved at the sides, as she gave him time to collect himself. “Eventful night, I presume.”

“Not in the least,” he said in a higher tone. “I’m dismayed your image of me has been tainted with these rash visits.”

“It’s an improvement, if any,” she replied. “Have you any news on the villain from the warehouse?”

“I was hoping to ask you.”

“The man in question didn’t show. The civilians were under the effect of a spell. It took some effort to return them. Thankfully I had some help.”

“No matter, he can wait. Time calls for another,” he said. “I've unravelled some of the mysteries haunting London. Where I can begin, is that the Skal epidemic is not random. I had met a carrier—the late Harriet Jones—afflicted by the malevolent disease, turning her hateful and horrid, inside and out.” He paused, choosing his words, gesturing idly. “How she acquired the disease is still beyond me, but I'm in a race for the truth now. Despite my defection from the Guard, I do hope they'd consider us allies for the time being.”

“Mrs. Jones was under the supervision of Dr. Swansea himself. Perhaps he may know?”

“Has he shared any findings?”

Elisabeth shook her head. “To be frank, we've not met for some time. I'd needed to avoid the Pembroke for unsavory matters and can only assume we'll continue our sessions after the storm passes,” she said, noticing Jonathan's brows raise. “Before you ask, the blackmail does insinuate motives behind those sessions.”

“I didn't mean to press on.”

“Not at all.” She smiled. “Rest eludes me, Dr. Reid. It helps to clear my mind.”

She had ushered him to lounge upstairs. He thanked her. “Could the Ascalon club be involved?”

“Involved, undoubtedly. They hang on a fine balance with the vampire societies in London—a balance that has been thrown off by the epidemic,” she said, ascending the last of the stairs. “Even they wouldn't dare a stunt like this, had they the means.”

Jonathan hummed in acknowledgment. _Question, yet to be solved, but one, off the suspects._

Half of the next twelve or so hours he spent preparing for the visit to the hospital, whatever would come after. For the rest, he'd touched up on the topic of blood and bloodlines, under the experienced Ekon, as the Lady referred to herself. When the time to depart came, they had settled an agreement that Elisabeth would aid him, on the condition he’d vouch for her innocence should the matters get worse.

It had been so long since he'd passed these familiar streets. Overlooking them from his flight through the dense canopy of roofs, he couldn't suppress the feeling of dread. It called to him from under, under the surface, welling up before it overflows. Before long, he landed. A barricade stood between the West End and the East End. Flyers pinned to the flimsy, rotting wood uselessly reminded to cover one's mouth.

Jonathan walked to the entrance, barrel fire crackling from behind, and frowned. The West End was largely unaffected by the plague, at least in ways the other districts suffered, but at what cost? It was a simple gesture, a wall, a locked door, only openable from this side, not a power struggle, no, that would imply the other fought back, had a chance, or even knew what was happening. Whether the quarantine kept things in, or kept things out spoke for itself. _How many had walked the long road but succumbed to their illnesses, at the foot of better facilities?_

Despite it all, it worked. The people out there died, and the people here did not. He had a say, but not a solution, so he found a different way in.

 

⁂

 

Jonathan had missed the fire. The ground was cold and white. His boots formed tracks under them, carrying the ashes some distance from the site. No others led in or out. Several small shacks were razed similarly. East End as a whole was left in ruins.

Pembroke hospital was in an even worse state from when he last saw. A dark  truck was parked hastily on the side street, _the ambulance must be_. From a distance, the bright shine of one patient's life essence flared, then blew out. The scent of blood crept out of the doors like tendrils against the white walls. The tents that had been full of patients a month ago were zipped shut. No one paid him mind as he entered, as far as swerving around him as if he was a leper, though they wouldn’t be wrong to assume judging by his tattered sleeves and soiled garments.

Calling the attention of a young nurse, he began, “Do you—”

“—Sir, we are sorry but there is no space available,” she replied, hurrying to the other wing and leaving him speechless.

He found another, quickly stating he was looking for Dr. Swansea. The nurse said, “He hasn't come out of the office,” and that they were all busy here, but he wasn't the first to ask about the administrator.

 _Who else?_ His question was answered sooner than he wanted. The door to Edgar's office opened almost by itself. The table was pushed to the side. One chair was toppled and the other was missing. Jonathan followed the wreckage and evidence of struggle back out and towards one of the windows, that was shattered and tinged with blood, _Edgar's_ blood. It was still wet. _The bastards!_

He sailed out of the frame and tracked them down. _The Guard of Priwen didn't kill civilians._ His captors left dead Skals behind, leaving none for him to feed _his_ rage on. While the blood didn’t go far, the scent lingered. _Pungent garlic, gunpowder, metallic red, grating on his senses._ It had slipped his mind how forcefully human blood bore down on his self-control. He hoped they weren’t far.

 _Edgar, dying, a river of blood, trickling to the floor, splattering. Slowly, it fills, rises, seeps out._ He wiped hands on his trousers. _What was with him tonight?_ He’d always avoided this part of town. It exuded an atmosphere of hopelessness that changed people. But now he felt suffocated. _The voice was not his!_ Mechanisms slid into place. _Downpour, the night after his rebirth._ He had escaped from the cell, finding his way back to Southwark, confronted by the two hunters.

_Feast, voyeur of birth and death._

_Gunshots, snapping him out of the trance—the Siren's voice—and into the more familiar, feral hunger._

Jonathan slid between the jeep and crates at the alley entrance. Rusty chains dangled above on wooden floorboards. A number of huts circled the locale. Shreds of the door led into one of the huts as if blasted inwards.

 _Crack!_ _Boom!_ Skals pounded on the flimsy closet door where Edgar stood behind. His captors, three of Priwen, were mangled below the monsters’ feet by a bookshelf.

Jonathan crept behind then dragged one’s head back, driving his blade through its nose as it lay on the floor. The others grouped up and dashed at him, eyes blazing white. His claws clashed with another's. Pushing hard, he forced it down, ripping its hands apart at the wrists.

Pain spiked from his back. He clenched his teeth trying to wrestle off the Skal that had mounted him, but it clung tight, biting down harder. Forced into an unsteady crouch, he attempted to stand and ram it into the wall. He hadn't gone far when another Skal grabbed his legs and his knees buckled.

The fall sent his vision swirling, but it brought him closer to the shelf. He reached forward, snagging the front leg and ripping it off. The heavy wood crashed on the Skal above, giving him enough leverage to pry the other off. However, its fangs were in deep, leaving a gash on his now bleeding shin through the fabric. He shouted, launching a blood spear. Following with an eruption of rage, he sped into it, throwing a punch that caved its chest in. Gripping something firm, he pulled. The scream accompanying its ribs being shattered on the way out from the hole heightened the frisson. In turn, he rent the remaining Skals, tossing the last one's lifeless body aside and wiping his mouth from the meal.

His hands were shaking as he tried the door— _Edgar—locked._ Jonathan dug under the bodies, looking for keys. Salt stung his eyes as his fingers slid into pockets and entrails. _Cold._ The rasps exiting his lungs left him cold. _So cold that the small metal key in his grip was comparably warm._

Edgar wasn't standing. His hands had been tied together and left to hang from the ceiling. Jonathan heard himself call out as he cut the bonds and lowered the man, accidentally crushing his feet on something as he did.

The administrator was pale as the moon. It took him some time to stir, and when he did, coughed blood onto Jonathan's once-bright-now-macabre top.

“E—Edgar…” he whispered.

“By the stole…”

Jonathan moved, allowing the man to sit with his back on the wall. “I took care of the—” His voice cracked. “—Your captors.” He had stepped on his discarded spectacles.

“Are you alright?”

“I'll be fine. You—I don't—” he messed up his words. “They will pay for this.”

Edgar didn't speak up.

“What did they want?”

“They interrogated me, Jonathan, beat me black and blue until I spoke,” he whimpered. “Accused me of so many things.”

“Why you?”

“The Guard of Priwen has had the habit of nosing into private matters…” he said vaguely. When Jonathan narrowed his eyes, he continued. “They suspected me of treason against London, against _my_ patients! They're adamant I caused the epidemic.”

“That's insane!” he said. “What gave them— You wouldn't have...”

The dying doctor's head lolled. When he patted his abdomen he winced. One eye was blackened. The other eye, looking up, quivered.

“We took an oath, Swansea.”

“I did nothing. Nothing with wrong intentions… Nothing any other physician in these trying times wouldn't do.” The man averted his gaze.

“You're omitting. For all the blood lost, your heart's beating unnecessarily fast,” the doctor said. “The Flu contagion spreads the Skal epidemic. Harriet Jones was _your_ patient.”

A pause, then Edgar said sharply, “I treated Mrs. Jones with vampire blood.”

A chill ran down Jonathan's spine, accompanied by fire in his words. “Whose blood!?”

“Lady Ashbury's.”

“I can't stand this,” Jonathan started. “The hunters were right! You— _you!_ ” He got up from his kneel and ran hands toward his temples, turning around to think, and find that Elisabeth had been listening with venom in her teeth and eyes.

Jonathan's expression drooped as she walked past him with the most sinister vehemence. The floor shook under her feet. She stopped a mere step from the man's now slumped and snivelling form.

Jonathan thought she would strike him down there, but, perhaps in her long life she had learned, it would be useless. Yet pain radiated from her stiff form, black ensemble tight at the limbs.

A vampire was relatively indestructible. Little could effectively harm, let alone eliminate one. Ekons were a choice cut, a fine branch from the immortal tree, cunning, sensible, above the lesser creatures often mistaken for beasts. Jonathan recognized the look on Elisabeth’s face. It was the same he had when he had nearly murdered his sister.

He did all he could do—knowing fully well it wouldn’t help—offered a hand to reassure her. _Anger was contagious, but between the epidemic and all the lives lost, what it meant, in her flaw…_ Her confident demeanor was lost, and she did all _she_ could do—the damage had been done—salvaged her pride and pushed the hand aside.

“Well, well, well…” a gruff voice announced itself, shuffle of his coat hiding the distinct click of a gun. Jonathan expected to hear the marching of men follow, but McCullum had come alone. “Two leeches conspiring, the mess you’ve left behind…” Bags underlined his bloodshot eyes. He mumbled under difficult breaths.

Jonathan stood between Elisabeth and the hunter, blocking his view. She could escape if she so desired, help Edgar to a better place, but the conflict proved it complicated. “These three watchers were dead before I got here. You’re quick to point fingers, but no quicker in recognizing your own crimes.”

“Do me one quicker then.”

“Take a good look.” He stepped away to reveal the scene. “No words spoken, no wounds dealt, this is still a war, one we both fight through opposing means! It is a war that cannot be ended by lone science or superstition, nor violence.” Geoffrey glanced down and back up, features tightening almost imperceptibly. Jonathan made a signal, and after a delay, the pair vanished into smoke. “You know better than I, there are only losers in war, and those that are forgotten.”

“I’ve no time for silvery words…”

“No, it doesn’t appear you have much time at all. It’s apparent we’ll be needing help from each other,” Jonathan said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To get away from your men—because you’ve contracted the flu yourself!”

“The ice only got thinner the deeper I ventured, but I did what needed to be done. I was the only casualty in the hunt for Harriet, and it’s _not_ over,” he said. “You’ve seen the worst of me. I can tell one of my own—a stubborn bastard.” He raised his revolver, this time with the hand off the trigger. “Will you help me?"

Jonathan closed the distance and pushed the gun down.

“Yes.”

 

⁂

 

The city was quiet, for the dead could not mourn nor cry, and there were few left to do so for them. Following the death of Harriet Jones, the epidemic seemed to pause, then spiked to higher activity. If one chanced a gander at the waxing and waning moon, they’d see a dark crimson sky bleeding through the gray. They’d find many of the water lines had been contaminated, that the disease always found a course. It did not discriminate.

The city cried in its own way, fists beaten against concrete, worn keepsakes, unfinished letters.

Geoffrey had been sinking in an ever-growing hole. The freefall had taken its toll, and he hadn’t even hit the ground. _Were there other ways to fall, but down?_ It had started with leeches, and it would end with them. He’d see it through, _no matter the cost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! If you've managed to get all the way through 12 chapters, thank you from the bottom of my heart. This is my first time writing this much and I've learned a lot, and a lot about myself since the start.


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